


The Innocence of Sacrificial Spells

by beesandjam



Category: Harry - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Harry Potter Next Generation, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kidlock, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Potter!Lock, Potterlock, Potterlock AU, Sherlock AU, Slow Burn, Teenlock, asexual sherlock/bisexual john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:21:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 90,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beesandjam/pseuds/beesandjam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John fumble through seven years at Hogwarts. While there, the boys learn more about life than they ever could anywhere else.  Filled with of potions, mischief, repressed feelings, and seething housemates, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson discover the magic of youth. (Set in time with HP's next generation characters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Year One I

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a text post written by [sherlocklexa](http://www.sherlocklexa.tumblr.com) on tumblr, this fic is next-generation potter!lock work. A big thanks to Sherlocklexa for her prompt and capitalized help along the way.
> 
> Just to make things clear: most characters are the same age for the sake of fiction. That means John and Sherlock are the same grade level although John is canonically older than Sherlock.
> 
> It might be a good idea to follow my personal tumblr [beesandjam](http://www.beesandjam.tumblr.com) because my updates as to the progress of this fic will be posted there, tagged as _tioss_. Any questions, corrections, or concerns can be sent to my inbox there or my pm on here. 
> 
> This work has not been looked over by someone yet so all buffers and whatnot are mine. _I tend to update on the last day of each month._ Thank you for reading.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes.” The boy tilted his chin up as he spoke. John slid into the seat opposite him, surprised that no other first year had followed his lead into this nearly empty compartment on a nearly full train.

John introduced himself a moment earlier—he’d even stuck out his hand as he’d seen his father do many times at the office—but the darker haired boy had waved off the greeting, his stare slowly drifting out the window adjacent to him while John moved his hand from its awkward spot in the air to the back of his neck.

Sherlock’s legs strained out next to John now. His hair was a dark, chocolaty brown and it curled at unplanned and chaotic perplexities of his face. His eyes beamed life through an intricate blue tint (although they seemed to alter slightly each time John glanced back, the skin near them creasing as he focused on John) and his skin was the color of such snow on the first of the year.

Something perplexing made up Sherlock, but he couldn’t quite pick it out. John, with his sandy hair and sandy skin, made a point of smiling at him and examined Sherlock pleasantly with an attempted casual chat.

“What house do you think you’ll get into?”

A few seconds passed as Sherlock continued to gaze out the window before he looked at John. Hadar, John’s newly purchased Eurasian Eagle owl, screeched a complaint from his cage as if to say: “Speak up or I’ll gag the remnants of my lunch onto your lap.” But the owl (even if he couldn’t) didn’t need to talk because Sherlock soon did. “Seeing as I’m a heir of the founder—Slytherin. You’ll clearly be Gryffindor. Now shut up. I’m thinking.”

John’s eyebrows masked into a line. What would be so demanding that the younger boy needed silence for? Without heeding Sherlock’s request, John asked what he was thinking about

“How to steal a cat,” Sherlock muttered, sneering with his upper lip curled marginally.

John was shocked. He expected a more normal answer about the dormitories or difficulties of classes, but no. Sherlock Holmes was plotting out a way to steal a sodding cat. John, a displeasing yet intrigued look on his face, responded in disbelief. “Pardon?”

“A bloody one at that. Just like the owner.”

John’s head shook in thorough skepticism (although John did have to admit that if this kid’s scheme was skillfully realistic enough he would certainly ask to join him) whilst he restated the previous statement as a question. “You’re going to steal a cat?”

Sherlock nodded while keeping his watch secure on the scenery outside the Express. “That is what I’ve just said,” he said. “Yes, a cat. I need it for experiments and potions, but seeing as I’ll be sorted into the same house as he is currently in it’s riskier to keep the blasted thing hidden.”

“You said you know about the house I’ll get into. You couldn’t possibly be correct,” John inturrupted. The earlier conversation was poking curious holes into his mind.

“Simple. You have nerve—talking to me even after I demanded that you’d shut up. Chivalry is from your clothes. Your parents are lacking money but you’ve made well with what you have even if your older brother passed down the jumper you’re currently wearing. You take pride in yourself…I can tell from the attempted handshake and determined eye contact, however you are not boastful of it. Easy. Gryffindor.”

“How’d you know about my sibling?”

Sherlock smiled for the first time. A side of his lips tugged into a slim smirk. “I’m certain you haven’t been drinking recently,” Sherlock jeered nonchalantly as his fingers formed a steeple under his chin.

John shot him a look of displeasure and confusion all muddled into one. “Only my mother was at the station, so you couldn’t have seen him. How do you know about the alcohol?”

“Of course he wasn’t there, that’d be too obvious,” Sherlock said, waving his hand in the air to amount the stupidity in John’s recent statement. “Your jumper reeks horridly of liquor…if you were only looking for it. He must have given it to you recently—you probably picked your favorite of the hand-me-downs to wear today for a good impression. Clearly Gryffindor.” Sherlock sighed, eyes trained on John’s. He was being read like a book. And the words didn’t stop coming out of his mouth “I’ll write your first paper if I’m wrong of any facts for reassurance of your disbelief,” he added.

John’s eyes widened. Did he know some sort of knowledge spell? Did John have a sign on his forehead that gave off information?

Instead of contemplating it any longer, he simply asked.

“I notice things other people neglect—I don’t know them. All apparent to say the least,” Sherlock said curtly. His hands moved from under his chin to cross over his chest.

“Brilliant,” John said. He didn’t even think about the words as they came out.

And that surprised Sherlock apparently because his eyes widened, too. And then he squinted at him. “Really?” Sherlock confirmed, a second grin spreading across his face. The brief instance allowed John to glimpse Sherlock for his authentic age but soon his persona was back up and all John saw was a devious smirk and absorbing eyes.

“Definitely,” beamed back John, “but I hope you do enjoy writing papers because I have an older sister, not a brother.”

•••

The students seated at the long and narrow tables watched Sherlock with wide eyes when he'd taken his seat on the stool as McGonagall declared his name. Mycroft Holmes talked little about his younger brother, for he disliked him and the large, loud mouth he possessed. Some of the students didn't actually know Slytherin prefect Mycroft had siblings until the young boy with shambolic hair and wild eyes was settled on the seat looking rather pissed off at the world. But, because McGonagall had announced him to be a Holmes, they couldn't disagree.

Sherlock took a long time on the worn stool, his mind bickering with this second voice inside his head. The hat searched his brain intently, finding extensive knowledge and cunning ambition. He could be easily put into two houses: Slytherin and Ravenclaw. With his balance between to intelligence and cleverness, Sherlock Holmes quickly became a Hatstall- and a bloody long one at that.

The two bickered within his mind relentlessly (But the Ravenclaws know absolutely nothing! – And yet, you could do well there.) and soon the Hat had become fed up with whose head he was sitting on and depended on blood. "Slytherin!" he yelled, finally finishing with the flamboyant first year. The students cloaked in green stood and cheered, except for one, as he had known what was to come.

•••

John Watson had been sorted much easily. He fluently fit into both Hufflepuff and Gryffindor; and so, because his bravery and courage outweighed his patience, John Watson became a very incredibly loyal Gryffindor by declaration of a hat. This time red-cloaked students cheered and an intelligent Slytherin smirked knowingly from across the Great Hall.

Over the course of his first meal the new Gryffindor made curious glances at Sherlock nosily. The Slytherin had noticed these occurrences quite inevitably, but dismissed them as his piercing blue-grey eyes trained onto his plate while he pushed his roasted chicken about the dish. John had met a few people at his own seating whom he seemed quite fond of; a decent-sized kid with a light humor by the name of Greg, a plump teen whose glasses didn't quite fit his face deemed as Mike, and a slightly quiet boy who shared a first name with previous headmaster Albus Dumbledore. John didn't find these classmates as tenuously captivating as Sherlock, but for being his housemates they would do.

He smiled at his new friends, holding up his cup of pumpkin juice as some sort of welcome to his coming years at Hogwarts. And when he caught Sherlock's eye seconds later, he nodded in sentiment even if the other boy only gave him a questioning look.

•••

Although it had only been two days, John Watson forgot about his Slytherin friend.

On Monday morning Sherlock had not been seated opposing him at the green table. John had also not seen him on the way to any classes or in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Flying, or Astronomy on Tuesday.

The complete bliss of his first two days at Hogwarts had swept him off his feet and carried him away. He became lost within corridors, sat in complete astonishment during a few classes, and even made witty jokes with his new Gryffindor friends. Because he had been a Muggle for his entire life up to this, Hogwarts was a bundle of utter possibilities that John could not wait to take ahold of…

…but then he bumped into a certain Slytherin on his way to Charms.

"Sorry," mumbled the blond automatically before turning on his heel. Dark hair, green robes, a nasty scowl plastered onto a pale face- how could he have forgotten? "Sherlock!" he called out to the retreating figure, "wait up!"

The brunet's eyes narrowed as he continued sauntering towards History of Magic. By seeing the means of the situation present, Sherlock was convinced his Gryffindor would continue to follow him until he spoke, so irritably he muttered, "What is it?"

John raked a hand through his hair, fixing his eyes on Sherlock's in the process. After a deep breath and a calculation that he had about two minutes to make it across the castle to Charms, he proceeded to ask the taller boy about the cat and if he had already stolen it or not. Even if the John was virtually infatuated with his new school and the grounds, Sherlock continued to intrigue him with a deeper necessity. Stealing a cat was quite captivating nonetheless- obliviously John had to assist Sherlock on this. Clearly. Who would pass up the chance?

John was rather eager so Sherlock answered his unspoken question in the act of ignoring the original one. "Meet me at the entrance of Great Hall once you've had dinner."

And without awaiting a response from John, Sherlock headed off to History of Magic, his cloak fluttering majestically behind him as he fled.

•••

Charms had ended fairly well. John had managed to do decently on their first quiz and even scribbled notes onto enchanted parchment, sending them over to Greg (but only when the professor wasn't looking, of course). To say the least, John was pleased with himself.

His new friends, on the opposing matter, did not do as well with their quizzes as did the blond. Greg had a decent but not so satisfying 'Acceptable', Mike was paired with a distasteful 'Poor', and Albus- whom the professor had suspected to do well in class- was left a failing 'Troll'.

With displeased looks on their faces (except for John's), the four boys trudged to the library to study up a bit before lunch, all a bit too irked to enjoy the facilities to their extent.

•••

During his dinner John scanned the Slytherin table for his friend multiple times over (it got to a point where Greg began questioning him about his actions), but his attempts proved futile- Sherlock wasn't there no matter how often he checked. Evidently, the Gryffindor was anxious to see his green-robed friend awaiting him in front of the large doors afterwards. With a pleasant grin, John rushed to Sherlock and they began their tedious journey to the dungeons.

"I assume, seeing that he'll have Prefect duties at this time," Sherlock began as they waited patiently for their staircase to stop moving, "my brother will be in no alarming distance of the common room for awhile. This allows us to easily slip in as long as no other Slytherin sees us flustering about his belongings. Simple."

John squinted. "Why do you want to do this anyways? And who is your brother?"

Although it had interested him before on the train ride to the school, it had never dawned on John why such a first year would want to steal an animal- let alone from his said brother. At this certain point John became alarmed. What if he wanted to use the deadly spells on it? Would he harm it in anyway possible? What if he-

"My brother is Mycroft Holmes, Slytherin prefect and also a pompous prick. He's an absurd being and his cat will have good use if I were to experiment on her- she is rather...outsized. Just like him, but in a different matter entirely."

The two had then reached a blank, cobblestone wall in which ceased their conversation. Once Sherlock had quite loudly mumbled a specific name of a potion (John grasped that Sherlock was practically welcoming him to visit the common room another time), the boys stepped inside.

The Gryffindor followed his taller companion in slower and swift stride, his eyes glazing over the green-tinted room with awe. Realizing it was located under the Black Lake, the common room was relatively dark when forgetting to mention the scattered candles or few fireplaces intelligently located about the area. With it's grand but cold impression the Gryffindor could have easily been comfortable and frightened at the same time. An insufficient amount of people were scattered around the room and the few who actually looked up at them only tossed a sneer in the Gryffindor's direction before casually returning to their droning conversing without second thought.

Both Sherlock and John were walking unconcernedly towards the dorms when John spoke next. "Why don't they care that I'm in here? I'm a Gryffindor for Merlin's sake!"

The Slytherin noticed how quickly the former Muggle was catching onto wizarding slang. He must have been with his housemates often enough for him in to grow familiar to it in order to be saying it himself. "I see you've made some friends," the younger boy commented.

"I'm not even going to ask how you knew- probably have a knowledge spell or something."

While witnessing John roll his eyes, a slight smile pulled at the corner of Sherlock's lips as he snickered. "That would be utterly tedious and boring. Are you fond of them?"

John thought back to the past two days. He'd shared some memorable times with them already, but they were missing something. And soon, with a glance upward and a light grin, John knew. No matter how much he enjoyed his friends' company they'd never be Sherlock. "They're nice, yeah. A bit boring compared to you, but they know more about the wizarding world than I do."

While peering downwards with a set raised eyebrows Sherlock said with a breath, "Obviously- they've lived here their whole lives."

John lost his chance to reply when the arrived at Mycroft's room. Luckily for them, once they had promptly pushed open the large door, the dormitory was vacant. Sherlock made a comment about how simple it all was when he rushed to the opposing side of the space to a selected green bed. The Slytherin dropped down to the floor and called the cat by its name. His voice was soft and soothing- almost like a crescendo in a melody (John dabbled a bit with the clarinet back in Muggle school). "Anthea," the human boy practically purred, "come here."

John wasn't expecting what had crawled out from the limited space between the bed and floor. With long, tattered, and matted black fur and fangs when she hissed, Anthea wasn't the sweet cat John was hoping for.

Once she had let a loud gnarl loose from her throat, Anthea attached herself violently to Sherlock's face, pushing him backwards. He struggled some but was soon able to part with her long enough for her to run about the room. Other than her mess, the pair of first years made a tremendous clutter chasing her from under beds, inside sheets, and sometimes from the walls. This was trickier than John had expected.

The Gryffindor resulted in multiple slashes about his arms and the Slytherin a start of a black eye (he'd run into the foot of someone's bed), but they had successfully captured the creature inside Mycroft's blanket. Sherlock, by a flick of his wand, sent the room back to it's normal, tidy, state and headed down the stairs, bundle of fur and sheets in arms and John at his heels.

•••

"Where will you be keeping that?"

"Oh, come on John. Do keep up. I know you're not like the rest of them, so you should have a brain somewhere in that massive head of yours."

Sherlock was rushing through the halls, and bloody hell, it was near curfew. John had no intentions of breaking a rule or losing house points on his first week and the thought of it made him just a bit queasy.

He could already picture a Howler being sent to him from his mother if she were to find out. Embarrassing him as it would in front of his new friends, it would drown his reputation in seconds flat. All in his first week! His new housemates would also be disappointed with his new choice of-

"Clever, oh how clever," Sherlock rambled ahead of him as the cat created screeching noises of resistance.

"What is?"

"The Room of Requirement, also commonly referred to as the 'Come and Go' room. Only when a person has a real need of it shall it appear and seeing that we must have a place to hide a beast, obviously we are searching for it now. But our need isn't really need, now is it? We took the cat and even if I do require her for experiments and the likings, it's not a need- it's a want. We must have something more prominent and demanding for it to appear, hmm?"

John's head twirled. Rooms and beasts and curfew and embarrassment and Slytherins and it was only his third night? Bloody hell, magic could captivate you quickly.

As best as he possibly could with all of his Muggleness in the way, John nodded and racked his brain for ideas; however, it was a senseless act because Sherlock opened his arrogant mouth and began talking, breathing his words out indifferently. "It was said that Dumbledore once had to use the loo and found it filled with chamber pots."

And, without another proceeding thought, the young Slytherin shouted "Accio chalice!" into the musty castle air while concentrating as best he could, successfully conjuring a silver cup filled to the brim with pumpkin juice. "Drink up," he muttered, shoving the glass towards the blond's chest.

John now held the chalice in his hands, his quivering fingers doing the best they could to support the cup. His mother wouldn't be proud, but it was the best (and only, really) option the Gryffindor could think of at the moment; it was seemingly the quickest way to be allowed back to the dormitories by Sherlock. If he were to just do as this git said, he would be seen back upstairs and in bed in the very near future.

John drank the juice rather rapidly once he'd picked out his choice, thus prompting the brunet to use the refilling charm after each occasion of emptiness and forcing the younger student to drink the juice again and again and again. And, soon enough, just as the genius had planned, John needed to use the restroom.

The Gryffindor returned the chalice back to Sherlock as he paced uncomfortably down the chalky halls and then back once more. It was getting to a point where he couldn't hold it much longer; walking wouldn't help, his hands were shaking, and he continuously bit the inside of his lip out of stress. "Sherlock-," he began, but was cut of when a large, round door appeared ahead of him, just as he was about to turn away. John ran in thankfully, praising Merlin as he did so.

The area John had now entered wasn't a loo at first, but he somehow followed a trail that led him to one. As he relieved himself, Sherlock locked Anthea in a cage placed perfectly inside the first room, flopped down onto a large purple couch, and thought of the potions he would be creating in the near future as he waited.

This chamber was rather large and resembled seemingly to the dormitories. Two beds were bordering a wall dyed maroon and a fireplace (with two selected arm chairs) opposed them. Scattered with out-of-place windows, a wall slithered behind the pair of beds as it mapped out the landscape of Hogwarts. It was comforting, the room, with its warm smells of tea and kindle.

"There's a golden sink in there, Sherlock," mumbled John in amazement when he found his way back to this oddly enchanted common room. The Slytherin didn't respond- he was somehow already lost in his thought -so John took the liberty himself to sit down on one of the beds and stare at the ceiling.

With wide eyes John scoped out the room and noticed how easily he could become very at-home in such an environment. Also, if they stayed in here the remaining time of the night, he could miss curfew completely and pop up the next morning, only bringing suspicion to a few people. John made his choice without even realizing it.

"Anthea is such a horrid name and if we are to keep her, she will be called Gladstone. Mycroft never has any logic, does he?" babbled Sherlock from where he was stretched out on the couch, his eleven-year-old lankiness spilling and pooling over one of the arms of the sofa where his feet dangled off.

"True," muttered the Gryffindor in agreement as he sunk into the luxury of the purple mattress he was occupying. Gladstone meowed displeasingly from her cage at this.

And soon but drearily, both slightly injured first years drifted off to sleep in their selected spots of the Room of Requirement without notice- one gaining sleep for the first time since his arrival and the other with a goofy grin smothered about his face as he dreamt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This can be also be found on fanfiction.net in my works. My username is [beesandjam13](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/4232245/%20)  
> 


	2. Year One II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're going into the forbidden forest. Tonight."

"Wake up, John." Sherlock's voice was rough and yet somehow soft as he nudged John with his wand. "We have classes." And with this statement Sherlock emphasized the word 'classes' mockingly because they were most prominently necessary to be present at and he sure as Azkaban didn't need to (Oh, Merlin…) miss out on such things.

John grumbled something inaudible at Sherlock's adolescent actions before turning over in the purple covers. Wait… purple covers? But Gryffindor's colors were red and gold, why would the dorm now be purple? His eyes shot open and he looked around the Room of Requirement, suddenly remembering what had happened the night prior and why Sherlock was the one waking him.

His observation swooped the area of the space just before settling on an empty cage bordering the fireplace. "Where's Anth- Gladstone?" he inquired sleepily, rubbing his eyes as he did so.

"I let her out," said the younger boy whom was now sitting on the edge of John's mattress.

John's jaw dropped. "You…you let her out? Why the hell would you do that?"

The Gryffindor, in worry and anxiety, darted off the bed and sprinted around the room looking for the said beast as Sherlock made himself comfortable on the purple mattress. His hands clasped behind his head while he said, "Although this is quite the show, there's no need to worry. She won't harm you."

John stopped in his tracks, which was near the armchair when he saw it. There curled up into a furry ball was Gladstone, her black paws tucked up into her chest. "But- but she was a beast!" the older boy stammered in amazement.

"Yes, and now's she's not. The potion was simple- I made it this morning when you were still sleeping. She has those qualities of which for hunting or when she becomes angered, but unless those specific things happen, she's a normal cat. Thought it would be easier for us to retain her," rambled Sherlock.

Hesitantly and slowly, John made his way to the sleeping creature and when he was close enough he reached his hand out carefully and caressed her back. She purred in her sleep as response to his gesture lovingly.

"How did I not hear you?"

"I can be exceedingly quiet, if you haven't yet noticed."

Outside the Come and Go Room, Hogwarts was glowing. At only eight in the morning, the golden fields shimmered with a translucent glaze and the Black Lake distantly seemed harmless. John looked off at the scenery while petting Gladstone before his eyes trailed the magical room again. Sherlock had stopped the fire while John was sleeping and a cauldron was set atop the desk in the corner of the room, leaving the space to smell of such ingredients, dungeons, and kindle.

"It'd be best if we left for Defense Against the Dark Arts soon," the Slytherin stated, rising from the bed and sauntering his way to the door, "seeing as we only have five minutes to make it across the castle."

•••

The pair made it to their first class with only seconds to spare that Thursday morning. The Room of Requirement had altered its position so when exiting their new hideout they were a few corridors from the classroom. Only Greg raised an eyebrow when they entered (Mike was still eating part of his breakfast and Albus had fallen asleep). Luckily for them, their Professor hadn't arrived yet, which gave them time to slip into their seats beside each other coolly.

"Where were you two lovebirds last night?" called Greg in a singsong voice a few tables over.

Sherlock took the independence of speaking while John shot him a glare and a slight sneer. "I was tutoring him in Astronomy and we fell asleep at a table in the library, mind you."

Greg took little to no offense to this. "It was a joke, calm down," he affirmed with a nervous laugh. And this time it was.

Professor Podmore decided to storm in at that moment, ceasing their conversation immediately …and Merlin, he was upset. Albus woke and Mike shoved the last of his pastry into his already-full mouth, however John only grinned to himself, eager to learn more about magic.

Around ten minutes into Podmore going on and on and on about the Curse of Bogies and how Peeves once used this exact curse on Albus's father, Greg sent a fluttering note over to John. It read:

How'd he get a bruised eye studying? GL  


John flipped over the parchment, scribbled out his dishonest response, and sent it back when Podmore wasn't looking.

Restricted section. JW  


A few moments later, he received another from Greg.

Holmes has already ventured out there?! Thought he could restrain himself for at least a week… I owe Potter a galleon thanks to him. GL  


John snickered at this, earning both a look from Podmore and an eye roll from Sherlock. He sighed, pressing the note into a page of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection and flipped to the next page, sinking into his seat dreadfully. But soon he could feel Sherlock's eyes cutting him trough like ice from the spot next to him.

"What?" the Gryffindor whispered through his teeth.

Sherlock's smile only worked on half of his mouth, the other was perfectly still while his wild eyes roamed John's features. "Oh… nothing," he smirked deviously.

John shrugged, returning his gaze on his Professor who was now describing how it felt to go through a Curse of Bogies with a displeasing expression glued to his face.

•••

On his way to Charms that same Thursday morning, John Watson was dragged into an empty classroom unwillingly.

Two sixth years grabbed him by the robes and yanked him to their selected designation. Well, him and his shaking body, to be exact.

They heaved him into a room and locked the doors, leaving him alone with a boy whom John suspected to also be a sixth year.

He racked his brain for the few spells he'd learn in the past three days. It wasn't much, conversely he did know a good handful to use if this Slytherin student opposing him were to try something.

"Mycroft Holmes," the sixth year said, his head tilting to the side as a sly smile crept about his face. His hair was a deep mahogany color, nothing near the cavernous forest color Sherlock owned. His eyes weren't as enthusiastic and were almost uninhabited, but blue nonetheless. His mouth was formed with the thinnest of lips and they seemed to always find a slithering way of contorting themselves with his pronunciation of words. Overall, Mycroft Holmes wasn't close to what Sherlock came off to be.

John wasn't impressed.

He also had a poor taste in cats. And pet names. And bodyguards.

"You know I've got a wand. I could just do a spell or something," the Gryffindor muttered as a futile warning.

Mycroft didn't pay the slightest of attention to this except for a light chuckle and the twist of his mouth. "Yes, the bravery of the Gryffindor. Bravery is by far the kindest word for idiocy. What is your current relation to my brother, Sherlock Holmes?"

"A friend? I don't know, ask him."

"Mhm, but you two were seen exiting the Room of Requirement earlier this morning. Might we be expecting hand-holding later this evening?"

John shot the older boy a scowl, clearly showing his dislike (to say it kindly) of this older Holmes and his snobbish comments.

"What are you trying to get at?"

"Do you plan to continue your association with him?"

The Gryffindor broke eye contact, taking a decent moment to look down at his hand-me-down shoes intently as he thought. Would he? The previous night stealing Mycroft's cat was rather thrilling. "Is this really your business?" he asked, raising his eyes from the ground and tacking them unto Mycroft's.

"I worry about him. Constantly."

"If you're so worried about him, why don't you just talk to him yourself?" John's touché practically sliced through Mycroft's cold expression effortlessly, but only for the slightest of moments because soon the Slytherin had flung his comeback in John's direction.

"He doesn't wish to come into contact with me whatsoever. I was hoping you'd give me updates on his ways when necessary."

John cocked an eyebrow. "Will I be allowed to leave if I agree?"

Mycroft nodded once. There was nothing left to say.

"Yes."

•••

Sherlock had sent John a parchment via Hadar (How Sherlock got ahold of him, John didn't know) after their shared flying class. It read:

  
John. 

I have your Astonomy paper written. Meet near the Fat Lady before eleven-thirty tonight. 

S 

John tugged on his jumper and pocketed his wand before heading down the stairs and into the common room. The deceiving brunet with wild eyes and startling height for his age was waiting promptly where he'd promised when John slid out from behind the painting at 11:33.

"Here," said the Slytherin, handing over a scrolled parchment. He was about to turn on his heel when John rested a hand on his shoulder.

"You didn't have to," John stated.

Sherlock chuckled. "Oh, but I promised."

And with that, the Slytherin made his way back down to the dungeons, fully awaiting the sight of John turning in the bloody awfull paper just minutes later.

Little did he know, John would receive a "Troll" on the said paper because Sherlock had written about the illogicality and stupidity of space itself. How likely.

•••

Sherlock was bunched up on the couch in the Come and Go Room, or as he was beginning to call it, the Flat (because after all, that's what it looked like). His legs were positioned oddly- one was stretched out; the other was tucked up against his chest with his arm strung around it. The air smelled like kindle and dust and the sun was just about to set behind the wall of windows. Gladstone curled up at the edge of the sofa, her tiny body coiled behind her tail. With every sight of her un-beastly form, Sherlock felt minor satisfaction flood through him. With only one night to experiment, it was a miracle he'd removed those fangs and claws.

On Friday night he'd found a way to removed the black eye he'd given himself (Murtlap was fantastic for these things) after an hour at the cauldron, Gladstone meowing from the floor near him. Apparently he'd forgotten to feed her and she made that abundantly clear so he placed some of the dead rat he had for potions in a bowl, put it on the ground, and continued with his useful hobby.

John wasn't there that night- he was probably screwing around with those stupid and foolish and idiotic friends of his and how could someone that was so smart want to be with his housemates? Oh yes, he remembered. John was normal; or a bit, to say the least.

But John was different. He hadn't made a harsh comment at Sherlock's "gift", he hadn't told him to 'piss off', hadn't ignored him the first chance he could, no, John came back and helped steal a cat. Oh, how the pair was so innocently foolish.

Sherlock couldn't fathom why he'd taken a liking to John. With only a few realistic (and boring) questions, John had agreeably gone along with him, sucked down all that juice, and lied to his "friends" about what they'd been doing. Hell, Sherlock had even overheard his conversation with Mycroft- the Gryffindor didn't even mentioned the cat! How could someone be so… so caring? Merlin, he hated the word. Couldn't stand it.

Sherlock sighed, resting his chin on his knee that was oddly propped up, his eyes closing and body falling limp. When was the last time he'd slept? He dozed off in History of Magic on Thursday and experimented on Friday night… Now it was Saturday and his eyes were shut tight and his breaths were evening. And soon, after his reluctant attempts at staying awake, he fell asleep for the second time on that purple couch. 

•••

John picked through his meal on Monday afternoon when Sherlock slid onto the bench next to him, cloak fluttering behind in ripples of fabric as he moved. Watson groaned, piercing a piece of fried sausage.

"What?" Sherlock asked curiously, raising an eyebrow and flattening a portion of parchment onto the table.

"I have Herbology later."

Sherlock dismissed this and waited for John to inquisitively glance over at the paper that he'd placed down, but it didn't come. The Gryffindor stared down at his plate,

poking and prodding at the meat in front of him. Sherlock soon gave up his ways, concluding that John wouldn't give up his.

He spoke monotonously. "And how is Herbology so bad?"

Sherlock already knew John's reply before he said it (dark circles under his eyes, a loss of appetite, and slightly quivering fingertips). "We have a quiz… and I forgot to study," the older boy said in a grumble, balancing his head on his fist.

The Slytherin contorted his body as so he was facing his Gryffindor friend and smiled widely. It was almost malicious, but John didn't take the care to look up and see it.

"It's only Herbology. Longbottom's no good anyways, you'll do fine," the Slytherin retorted, silvery-blue eyes sparkling with excitement, "I have something to cheer you up."

"Sherlock, I'm not up for-"

The brunet cut him off. "We're going into the forbidden forest. Tonight."

John wasn't allowed time to protest because Sherlock was already explaining the situation for him and jabbing a finger at the list of elements on the parchment. "I need ingredients for a potion and you are going to help me. It's all really simple, John."

And with a flick of a wand to scroll up his paper and a fluttering of robes, Sherlock Holmes vanished from the Great Hall.

•••

Sherlock was almost a psychic because, just as he'd predicted, John had done exceeding well on his herbology exam. Lucky for him, John had a free period before his class and was able to study exceedingly. Professor Longbottom was nice about John's nerves anyway- he had said it was all normal for things like this to stir up.

John's legs were becoming rather stiff in his chair so he propped them up on the opposing seat. Only he, Albus, Greg, and Mike (from what they could see) were in the library, so it was intensively quiet. Well, until Mike burped and the boys laughed. Greg grinned while shaking his head, Albus's chortles could be heard in the dungeons, and John smiled like a fool. As quick as it began, the silence was erased almost as if it had never existed in the first place.

Soon their assorted books were shoved aside, Albus was searching the library for a chessboard, and Greg was making jokes about a Professor all while John continued to smile like a drunken bloke.

The young Potter eventually found one at a discarded table. He brought it to his friends in a half jog-half walking manner and placed it down with a pant. "Do the Muggles know how to play?" He asked, hands on his hips in direction to Greg who shrugged.

John's eyebrows furrowed. Chess? Of course he knew how to play. Almost everyone back at his Muggle school knew how to… so why was Albus asking if he could? Chess was a classic! And it was incredibly-

"Who doesn't?" exclaimed Mike in partial whisper, but Albus only smirked with his head cocked to the side.

"Not Muggle chess," he snickered, "wizard chess."

"Oh."

John leaned back in his chair when he realized. Albus and Greg had probably been playing it their whole lives, of course he and Mike didn't know. "So, how do you play?" said John, arms crossed over his. If he was as good as he was with Muggle chess with was Wizard, the three other boys would lose horridly.

Greg and Mike took turns explaining the process. It's had the same aspects, they described, just that pieces broke and they had to use the Reparo spell to fix it all.

And almost immediately after they finished, Albus and John dived into a match; Mike cheering on the blond, Greg cheering on the brunet.

It was challenging, for Albus was just as good as Watson was, but John had a few tricks up his sleeve that he'd learnt from Harriet over the years. 

•••

Because Sherlock never detailed as to where he would meet John (or when, frankly), the Gryffindor was left clueless as he was sprawled out on his bed. Believing that if he really needed to, Sherlock could simply send Gladstone or Hadar with a letter, John skimmed through his Defence Against the Dark Arts book peacefully. Well, that is, before Greg rushed up the stairs and yelled for John to come down.

When they finally reached the common room John frowned marginally with hands shoved deep in his pockets at what stood opposite of him. A few of his Gryffindor housemates gathered around and stared shockingly at this new event.

"Merlin's beard, how did you get in here?" John inquired, a raised eyebrow and grin only partially suppressed.

Sherlock stood up straight, but his shoulders were slumped. His rambunctious dark hair sat at odd ends of his face- a few curls fell just in front of his eyes and one or two cupped the skin on his cheekbones. His eyes were the center stage, like a set; bright and wild and clear and magical. No wonder why the theatre that homed them was so effortless.

"Lumos isn't the most challenging password, I hope you know," said the Slytherin matter-of-factly. He seemed very out of place in the Gryffindor common room with his green robes against their red furnishings. "John." he hissed, "Let's. Go."

Watson grumbled nonsense as he jogged back upstairs to fetch his jacket (he didn't believe his jumper would be enough in this cold September weather) and hurried downstairs once again. Without a single word, Sherlock took off, his cloak slashing behind him, forcing John to do his best in hopes of quickly following.

The Slytherin led the Gryffindor into a hidden passageway behind a portrait of a sophisticated feast, efficiently sending them outside and into the stale, fall, and darkened air.


	3. Year One III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason the Forbidden Forest is forbidden.

Merlin, Sherlock was fast. His strides were about three times the normal, his legs long and cunning, cutting anxious pathways through the Forbidden Forest. However, he did this all gracefully while reading off the list of ingredients he required.

John had found that he was no longer very hesitant about doing such things with Sherlock- he was now becoming quite fond of it all. As he dashed to keep up with his Slytherin friend, John's eyes darted back and forth, sucking up every image of the forest he possibly could. It was all so uncommon. Then again, compared to the Muggle world, everything was uncommon at Hogwarts.

Slender trees shot upwards into the night air, some so tall that short little twelve-year-old John Watson couldn't see the end to. Moss crept about the grounds and fallen branches acted as fences, securing the duo onto a faintly worn path. Above, the moon shone, glittering and gleaming with its neutral smile. Leaves were sprinkled on the moss and root-scented dirt, somehow allowing Sherlock to sprint over them silently while John's movements were nosily echoed. The forest was thought to be a harmful place, but really, as John was seeing it now, it was rather beautiful in its own mysteriously charismatic way.

They made their trail through the wooden grounds throughout multiple pairings of minutes until John opened his mouth. He ran his fingers through his blond hair as words slowly trickled out of his lips. "Why are you still in your uniform? You could have changed out hours ago."

"Due to the fact that Gladstone was swelling to a larger size with an accidental potion, I didn't have anytime to change."

"Did you brew an antidote?"

"Clearly."

"And you gave it to her?"

"John, please don't ask questions of the ridicule."

"Did you?"

"Obviously, now shut up. I need to find yew and knotgrass. Keep an eye out."

The blond sighed and locked his eyes downward. Although there wasn't much to focus on because it was dark and the earth was mostly covered with twigs and leaves, John tried to glare at his shoes instead of the back of Sherlock's head. He counted to ten evenly, just as his mother always told him to do when he got into fights with Harriet, and soon his stress slipped from him in invisible tendril-like forms. But momentarily they returned because John Watson spotted the largest paw print he'd ever seen. It was so enormous that (John tested this wearily) both feet fit inside with still a great deal of room left.

"Sherlock," he called apprehensively, stopping in his own tracks.

The Slytherin waved off John's annoying mumbles. "I thought I told you to shut up," Sherlock retorted dully through his teeth.

"But-"

The Slytherin stopped. "What was that?"

His view scurried out into the area just ahead. With his wand in the current Lumos state, he extended his hand out in front of him. A figure stood in the distance. A boy stared back at them… short, narrow body, dark hair, pale skin. Just as Sherlock decided the cloaked person was also a first year out and about the forest illicitly, the student dashed off, leaving the small span of light the pair possessed.

John blinked multiple times. First an enormous paw imprint, now this? "Sherlock," he practically shouted before gripping his friend forcefully by the shoulder, "who the Azkaban was that?"

Sherlock turned his head so he could see John properly. The Gryffindor wasn't necessarily shaking, but then again he wasn't exactly calm and collected as he usually was. "Don't know. I couldn't quite catch the robes."

"Robes?" John muttered inquisitively.

Sherlock's head bobbed. "He's a first year, from what I saw."

John would have responded and it would have been something referring to Sherlock's incredible talent or another question relating of such, but he couldn't possibly recall what he was going to say because he was trampled on. Not by Sherlock, no. John was attacked by the owner of the large print he noticed just moments earlier. And it hurt. Bloody hell did it hurt.

Albus once told him a story of how his father, Harry encountered, a large three-headed dog named Fluffy in his first year. Albus was perched next to that window he never moved from, arms wrapped around his knees as he went through one of the many stories his father had told him. Because John didn't know much about the Harry Potter era (as some called it) as he was only just recently a Muggle, Albus went into the full story. It took him almost half the night to get through, but John stayed up as best as he could, lying on his stomach with a pillow propping him up.

Apparently Harry had realized the Sorcerer's Stone was hidden somewhere in the castle and with help from groundskeeper Hagrid, he and his two friends were able to locate it and realized their potions teacher was out to steal it. The stone had different means of protection- one being the previously mentioned three-headed dog. Albus noted that Harry used a flute to calm it after the dog reawakened after a formerly induced sleep.

…Music! That was it!

John didn't have time to celebrate the recovery of former knowledge - one of Fluffy's heads grabbed him by the waist, clenching him between a large set of teeth.

He tried whistling and then humming, but it was no use. The dog's panting and grumbly noises were too overpowering. "Sherlock!" he cried, "Music!"

It was difficult for Sherlock not to laugh at the ludicrous of it all, except his one and only friend was in the mouth of a three-headed dog and anything could be possible at the moment. Forgetting logic and trusting John's idea, Sherlock thought of his violin, which he'd left in the Flat. The clean lines, smooth wood, and tuned skins. It was all there, all he had to do was…

And he started playing, the nonverbal Accio correctly working. Sherlock sawed at the strings so as to be heard over Fluffy's grunting.

A large canine tooth charged into John's back.

When the three-headed beast finally took notice of the sound and quickly dazed off, a slobbered John still latched in its mouth.

Sherlock dropped the instrument immediately after he was sure the beast was asleep. With a firm grip on either side, he was able to push open the beast's mouth. He secured an arm around John's drooled-on waist, slid both of them out of the mouth, and placed John on the ground.

"Are- are you okay?" Sherlock stammered, wiping off slobber from John's face with his sleeve. The Slytherin very rarely spoke like this and John noticed it almost instantly. Sherlock wouldn't have exactly come out and say he was worried, but John took this to be just as much.

He choked on his words a bit, but soon they slithered their way out of his scrunched throat. "Fine… my…my back," he managed, propping himself up on an elbow unwillingly.

"We're going to Mrs. Hudson's," Sherlock stated, sliding his arms under John's nearly limp body and lifting him up to his feet. He couldn't possibly carry John all the way out of the forest. So with an arm tightly around John's body and the other clutching onto his violin, Sherlock and John made their way out of the forest to the groundkeeper's hut rather quickly. The large dog with three heads could only sleep for so long.

•••

Mrs. Hudson was very welcoming. With her bright, blue eyes and warm tea, of course the Holmes's became friends with her early on.

"Yoo-hoo!" she'd twittered upon their arrival, but her happy persona quickly vanished on seeing John's critical state. Furthermore, she and Sherlock rushed to get him on a cot to treat his wound. Once they'd removed his jumper and jacket, the injury didn't look too fatal; however, with additional scrutinizing, both Sherlock and the groundskeeper agreed it needed tending to immediately.

The benefit of having Mrs. Hudson as a family friend was that she didn't quite care if Sherlock roamed the campus past curfew. She also didn't question what had bitten John punishingly- she'd only done it to find the best treatment. Seeing as she'd known Sherlock since he was an infant, Mrs. Hudson knew all too well of his peculiar habits and only asked when necessary. She was a fantastic gamekeeper, Mycroft had once told Sherlock, although she wasn't the only one. Rubeus Hagrid still took care of most of it – Mrs. Husdon completed what he couldn't when he was busy or on a trip.

She shuffled to a cupboard where she produced a tin of Star Grass Salve and immediately returned to frantically uncomfortable John Watson. She massaged the ointment into his skin around the wound and eased his tense body.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at John's easing as she spread the last of the salve onto his back. Sherlock, in the backdrop, sat on a chair with his head in his hands, oblivious to the commotion in front of him. He shouldn't have done this- it was only John's second week and he'd already got his one and only friend bloody battered. All he needed were some yew and knotgrass, he could have gotten it alone, hiked back to the Flat, and begun his experimenting. In truth, he didn't need John's company, Sherlock longed for it like a librarian needed a decent book; both did not demand these things, however John kept him emotionally stable and when understanding Sherlock's thrashing moods he could never really survive without John now that he'd had him.

He gulped on the little saliva present in his parched mouth while his toe tapped repeatedly on the ground. If he were to continue, he was sure to beat a worn hole in that very spot. Mrs. Hudson had to instruct him to quit before he looked up and when he did, a small smile was brought to his face. Sherlock very rarely smiled, but in these past days it was all he did. Well, when John was around.

There on the cot was the Gryffindor, now sound asleep due to the lack of aching in his back. Mrs. Hudson had slipped his jumper back on when he was awake. John was positioned on his stomach so he wouldn't fuss with his spinal injury. "Thank you," Sherlock said warmly, standing up to embrace his grounds-keeping mother.

•••

It was as if every time he and Sherlock did something in the past-curfew hours John ended up in the Flat's bed. Alone, of course, but all the same. Groggily he sat up, his body propped on his elbows weakly. The room was warm with the fire on and John sank into its earnest delight.

But that was when his spine decided to announce itself once more.

"Ow," he muttered, squishing his eyes shut and gripping onto the purple sheets.

Sherlock was testing various healing potions for decency when he heard John's slight wail. "Coming!" he called, dropping in the last of the contents from his vial before turning around in a single motion.

With only a few of his elegantly long strides, he made his way to his friend's bed and sat on the edge. "Put this on your back when you get a chance," Sherlock instructed, placing a transparent flask into John's hands, "it should help heal the cut. I used some of the tentacles Mum bought me at Diagon Alley."

John stared at the potion as if it were a new species as he clasped it between two fingers and a thumb. "What is it?"

"Murtlap Essence."

While he didn't have a clue, John mumbled, "Oh."

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock peered at him.

John paused. His back was hurting, his head was a bit foggy, and what exactly had happened last night?

"My back…" he breathed, "what happened to it?"

Sherlock's infamous smile appeared then and John couldn't help but crinkling his eyes at the sight of this. Sherlock had a lovely smile, with one side perfectly still, almost like a statue, while the other curled up in partial amusement. The Slytherin's eyes only added to this action. Today they were a green tint, abandoning their normal numerous shades of blue or grey. His nose wrinkled as he smiled too. That was new. "We were in the forest and Fluffy got ahold of you. When we got to Mrs. Hudson's you fell asleep and I carried you back to the Flat."

It all came back to John then. The crushing teeth against his skin, the smells of the groundskeeper's hut, the night sky as Sherlock led him home. Somehow, through all the pain he suffered, John wouldn't have changed a thing. Because it was a rush. Because it was adrenaline. And he thrived on it so.

He returned to the original question. "I'm doing well, yeah, thanks. Right. I should go put this on my back now."

Sherlock nodded as his friend hobbled weakly off the to washroom. Over the weekend the Slytherin trained Gladstone to come on command, so when he snapped his fingers, the small black kitten scurried to where he was on John's bed and meowed happily. "Just checking," he mumbled to her, smoothening the fur on her forehead. She purred at this and then curled up by his thigh, almost forcing him to pet her, which he so lovingly did.

John returned a few moments later with an empty glass flask in hand and a smile broadcasting from his lips. The stony Slytherin was resting next to the cat, his fingers sifting through her fur. John had never seen Sherlock so… so innocent, so naïve. John ruffled his hair with his free hand and walked to a spot near his bed.

Sherlock finally took notice of his Gryffindor friend at that precise moment and stopped petting the cat, his frame subconsciously sitting up straight as he crossed his arms over his chest. "I wasn't… I was examining her for bugs," the Slytherin deceivingly explained, rubbernecking at the fireplace in the distance.

"Sure," John chuckled in mock-agreement while leaning against the wall. It was one of the few time's he'd seen Sherlock flustered and embarrassed and did he just stutter? The sight as a whole was so rare, but intricately enthralling nonetheless. Well, then again everything involving Sherlock was fascinating. The boy himself was a living novel waiting to be read.

•••

The Murtlap Essence ended up clearing the wound on John's back completely and he was able to return to classes the next day. Both he and Sherlock were asked occasionally by various people where they had been. Sherlock was the one to generate the response: he just didn't feel like attending classes and forced John to stay with him. The few Professors that took notice didn't punish them for this (they were only first years and it was only their second week) and Mrs. Hudson never spoke a word about it except for when Gladstone returned to the Flat the next morning with a letter tied to her neck. Apparently, when she was allowed outside the Room of Requirement for entertainment that Tuesday evening, Mrs. Hudson had found her and decided it was the easiest way to deliver a letter, seeing as she would soon be back in their possession. Her letter only consisted of questions about John's health in which Sherlock responded positively.

John's housemates were very inquisitive on his disappearance and made a few rude comments about Sherlock dragging him "down to the dungeons" like that again. John told them off on it and then they were back to fooling around with spells in the dorm. Everything was always fun and games with the Gryffindors, but it wasn't the adrenaline John needed. They served a prominent purpose, nonetheless, however John continued to return to Sherlock for the remainder of the year.

The pair ventured out into the forest a few more times, making certain to not cross paths with the three-headed dog once more. John was often found in the Slytherin common room alone (it was a quieter place to study, not many people occupied the space there). But then again he was also frequently found in the dungeons making potions with Sherlock or in the Flat discussing various topics with Sherlock or outside staring at the Shrieking Shack in the distance with Sherlock. To say the least, John was glued to his Slytherin friend even if he did create time to be with Greg, Mike, and Albus.

The same Gryffindor had practically forgotten about his family by the time he'd stepped back onto the Hogwarts Express to return home for the summer. He'd said goodbye to his housemates earlier and promised they'd meet up in the summer (whether Muggle or Wizarding world wasn't determined). He slid into the seat opposing Sherlock in the same compartment he'd met him in and smiled. Sherlock smiled back.

"Are you disappointed?" John asked curiously.

Sherlock scoffed in a teasing matter, stretching his legs out to the vacant space next to John just as he'd done last time… except this time their was a black cat curled up atop of his thighs, already sleeping peacefully six minutes into the ride. Sherlock had grown a few centimeters since that first trip, towering over John even more. His eyes were brighter too, his hair more curlier. In all, he was more…magical. Everything seemed to be. "Why would I be?" The Slytherin retorted while flicking his wand around randomly. "I'll be back in a few months."

John didn't respond for a while, but watched as his friend levitated Hadar's cage, placed it back down beside John, and repeated his actions. "Will you write?" John finally muttered after his owl's annoyed squawking died down.

Sherlock smirked that curious smirk of his and looked the Gryffindor in the eye. "Obviously," he grinned.


	4. Year Two I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives a curious letter.

John and Sherlock had never discussed the robed figure they saw in the Forest on the night of Fluffy's attack because, well, they were attacked. By a three-headed dog. …Or at least they didn't speak of it until summer break (it was alarming, it was life threatening- obviously they had forgotten about the unnamed student until then).

Just as Sherlock had promised, they sent letters back and forth with Hadar, exhausting the poor Eurasian Eagle out of its wits.

They'd considered some theories of who this person was after Sherlock mentioned he'd wanted to see the beast again. The topic had been undusted and investigated and thought thoroughly through numerous times during the summer. They'd also chatted about how John's family was in the process of moving and his get-together with his Gryffindor friends (which ended up being held in the Muggle world, after all). Although they never had met in person, both John and Sherlock were very aware of each other's lives.

Sherlock was first on the Hogwarts Express on September 1st (he'd always hated sendoffs) so it was John who'd found him in compartment 221 all alone. He was facing the window and his grown frame stretched out over the opening and absorbed in all light possible.

"Sherlock," John said in a short exhale, dropping his case on the floor and Hadar's cage on the seat.

At the sound of the familiar voice, the Slytherin turned around. Instantly. Because that voice signaled alarms in his head and thoughts into worn paths and emotions into voyage. Because it was John Watson; his one and only friend.

"John," Sherlock breathed back, his body diving forward to collapse the blond into a hug, "you've grown." Gladstone meowed in her seat at his sight too, as if to say "I agree. We've missed you".

The Gryffindor wrapped his arms around the Slytherin's frame and he rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder. He'd matured incredibly over the summer break himself; fingers more slender, legs spanning universes long, face narrowed (his flesh was tight against his bones). John seemed to notice the oddest things of his friend ...like the new peek of yellow in his eyes. It was never the normal "Oh, you've gotten taller" or "You lost your baby fat". No, it was always the vague aspects of his friend in which he sought.

"How are you?" he managed with a fool's smile. John was rather surprised by Sherlock's actions, but it was Sherlock Holmes: the unpredictable boy.

"You know bloody well how I've been. Don't ask," he slurred while releasing John from the embrace. Sherlock relocated himself to be next to the cat.

"Yes, well, it's still nice to hear it in person. With voices and all..." John uncomfortably trailed off as he slid his case up onto the shelf and sat down. He rubbed at the back of his neck. How could things go from so friendly to this in under a minute? Oh yes, Sherlock, right...

He sighed, looked at the human oddly contorted in front of him, shook his head, and sighed again. It was a reoccurring cycle. Sherlock's habits never ended.

The brunet glared at him.

John chuckled.

"Mycroft was an arse, Gladstone missed you, and I have had successful experiments. Burned down the curtains, but Mummy never saw," Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he absentmindedly stroked the cat to his right. She purred and flipped over so he was petting her stomach. Even without seeing her previous owner for a year, Gladstone still resembled Mycroft in witty peculiarities.

"I don't think it was the cat that missed me, Sherlock," stated John as his head tilted to the side and his sky-like eyes frothed. He smiled. He snickered. He grinned. Merlin, how he'd missed his mysterious friend.

Sherlock cursed and moved his feet from beside John to onto the Gryffindor's lap, annoying him furthermore. His gaze grew tired of viewing John's cheerful display. He looked out the window, then, not wanting to see bright and sunny Watson any longer. "Fine, it wasn't the bloody cat," he admitted, crossing his arms and digging his toes into John's stomach.

"Ah, the Slytherin has a soft side."

Sneaking a glance at John out of curiosity, Sherlock responded with a snort, "Is that a problem?"

John chuckled, sunk into the seat, and patted Sherlock's foot carelessly. "I'm actually rather pleased," the Gryffindor said as he flashed a grin at the cold Slytherin. Sherlock grimaced and continued staring out the window. Grassy hills rolled by the train's windows and the thick humidity from rain seeped into the compartments.

"I'm not stupid, John," sighed the brunet, "you really should remember that. It's rather obvious."

"Trust me, I won't forget it."

•••

John strolled to the cobblestone door, muttered the selected potion name of the week, and stepped into the Slytherin common room. McGonagall had told both he and Sherlock that if they weren't causing trouble, they could loiter in opposing Common Rooms whenever they pleased… Though it didn't really matter because Sherlock would go where and when he wanted because he was Sherlock Bloody Holmes and rules didn't matter.

John couldn't remember where Sherlock had said he'd be (was he settled in the Flat? Great Hall?) so he decided on his friend's Common Room because it was quieter than the Gryffindor's. It didn't really matter if Sherlock was there or not, did it?

Luckily, knowing Sherlock practically inside and out, John was in the correct spot because sprawled out in front of the fireplace was the rambunctious Slytherin. His hair was a mess, eyes dark and hollow, but nonetheless was it John's friend.

"Don't you have Charms right now?" asked John as he sat in an armchair.

Sherlock didn't respond, he also didn't move. The cantankerous git just sat there with his fingers pressed up against his lips. His eyes were open, so apparently the Mind Palace that he'd occasionally mentioned wasn't that busy. The fire crackled light against his practically translucent skin as he sorted through his thoughts. John decided then that there was no use in attempting conversation.

So he sat and did his Potions paper.

Thirty minutes later Sherlock Holmes opened his mouth.

"Fire helps me think." Sherlock stretched out and relaxed his back. "Should I write that?" he asked upon seeing John fussing with his parchment.

The Gryffindor tossed down his paper. "Have at it."

"When is this due?"

"Friday."

"I'll have it done by Thursday."

"And it won't be like my Astronomy paper last year?"

"Have I written you a poor Potions paper to date?"

"No."

"Exactly."

John sighed. Sherlock could never just be simple, could he?

John doubted he could.

"I was thinking about the night of the three-headed beast."

Before John could interject whatever the hell he wanted to, Sherlock continued. "I think the figure we saw sent the dog to attack us. Why would Fluffy attack if he weren't protecting anything? It's illogical."

"Why are you fussing over the student so much? They could have been just strolling about like you and me."

"Not like me. I'm not normal. No one would do that."

"Maybe they would."

Sherlock gulped. "They wouldn't. And I'm almost positive that they sent the beast on us once they noticed our presence."

"Whatever you say, detective."

•••

The first letter dropped against Sherlock's plate on the initial Monday in November with a clanking "thud". It was addressed in thick purple ink and the letters curved with significant remarks. It read:

****

Dearest Sherlock,

****

I didn't have the time to console you on this earlier in the summer and it seemingly slipped my mind since your departure, but Mycroft has informed us about your whereabouts with a Mudblood. Knowing our high standards of your well being, we will not permit you to be about this boy any further. Mycroft will notify and update us on your progress, but from here on out you will not loiter around John H. Watson.

****

And if you chose to ignore this note your consequences will be chosen.

****

Behave nicely,

****

Mummy and Father

He scrutinized the letter for a few moments before knowing it all.

Mrs. Holmes only wrote in black ink and from the way the parchment was printed it seemed as if it was from her inconvenience. Her scrawl wasn't that round and bubbly- it was narrower –and she only used parchment bought specifically in a little shop down on Diagon Alley.

The letter was obviously forged. His parents did not write it. But who had forged it?

The Slytherin sighed and slipped it into his borrowed (from the restricted section) book, heading off to the Flat since John was nowhere in sight.

•••

Sherlock didn't particularly care for the letter's incentive at first. He continued studying (or attempting to) with John, brewing and causing explosions of potions with John, and sneaking out onto the Hogwarts grounds past curfew with John. All his time, when not relished alone, was with his Gryffindor friend. And he enjoyed it.

Sherlock was even around John so often as to where he began talking to the Watson's housemates and partook in deducing their lifestyles the first instant of meeting them. It hadn't been excruciating, but the three boys did groan when things like "You still sleep with a stuffed animal" shot out of his mouth and slapped them in the face. They got over it; nonetheless being the Gryffindors they were, and challenged Sherlock to a Wizard Chess match, which he easily won.

He wasn't really worried until a second letter was dropped onto his books precisely two weeks later. He didn't dare read it in front of John so he slid it into his book and continued working on his Herbology parchment. Only when he was alone in the Flat later that night did he open it. It consisted of the following:

****

Dearest Sherlock,  


Mycroft has informed us of your invariable occurrences with second year Gryffindor John Watson. Your father wishes for me to punish you immediately, for you have seemingly abandoned our rules, but I have contracted you a single, utmost final chance.

****

If you do not halt your relations with John at once, you will be punished.

****

Behave yourself,

****

Mummy and Father

After he'd skimmed through it three or four times, he got to work.

Sherlock rushed to his desk in the corner of the room and pushed aside his cauldron and various ingredients. He attempted the Specialis Revelio charm but nothing appeared so he then tried the old and boring way of finger printing. With what he had near him, Sherloc did as best as he could to find a print, smudge, hair, dust particle… anything that could contain DNA, but it was no use. The person who'd sent it was clever, oh how clever.

Sometimes, magic wasn't a blessing.

Because sometimes, problems could be solved easily without layers upon layers of spells and charms locked on something.

Maybe Muggles were good. In their own way, of course.

Sherlock slumped in his set (or as best he could because it was only a stool) and pushed the letter aside. With a quick glance at the clock on the wall, the Slytherin noticed the time.

Was it physically possible to lack sleep for over one hundred and twenty hours on a Wideye potion?

Well, he'd find out soon enough.

•••

Because he wasn't quite certain who was sending the series of ill-fated letters, Sherlock refrained from wandering alongside John too often. Although he didn't do this for the said-to-come consequences, the Slytherin teen did not wish to put his friend in danger.

John didn't take this very well. Believing that Sherlock was ignoring him for some peculiar reason, John did the same. Again. He, being left out on a great deal of information as per the usual, did not realize the recent lack of his best friend was a precaution and not just one of his "pissful moods". And because of this absence of information, John Watson slowly but surely began to loathe his best friend.

It had all started in the end of November. He'd been contently sitting in the Flat alone with Gladstone when the Slytherin had sauntered his usual saunter through the magically appearing doors, and John, who was currently reading the Daily Prophet, peered at Sherlock from the rim of his paper. He glared at his "friend" before resuming his activity with his head hidden behind the daily. Sherlock left quickly - he wasn't too fond of John when he was like this.

The second occurrence was when he and his three Gryffindor housemates were studying in the library. As rare of an happening as it was, the quartet of students was revising and examining and scrutinizing as best they could - their Defense Against the Dark Arts test was promised to be challenging. When Sherlock had seated himself in a chair near the Gryffindors's table, noticed their presence, (and made a note for himself of how much John had grown in the past weeks) his jaw locked and in one of those swift movements of his and he was gone. The Slytherin common room would have to do.

Sherlock was making a point not to be seen by Watson as best he could, but being placed in the same classes was out of his hands. He would take all the secret passageways he had prior knowledge of, purposely step into a class late, or skip them all completely just to rid of the dark looks John shot him. What had he done?

John's mood worsened by the days. The more time he spent away from the Slytherin, the more he despised of him. And the more it happened, the more he couldn't remember why he detested his best friend. People were supposed to make up after a certain amount of time, yeah? Wasn't that the normal thing to do? After trying to remember the real cause of it all, John decided. If he was going to mope when not around Sherlock, why couldn't he just be with Sherlock again? Was it all that easy?

Knowing Sherlock inside and out, John understood exactly where the location of his friend was on Sunday mornings: Experimenting in the Flat. The Gryffindor strode to this location while he built up his confidence. John went through the list in his head: Apologize for whatever he'd done (although he didn't know what he did to deserve this) (The whole situation was confusing to him) (Was he under a Confusing Concoction?), plead that he wouldn't do it again, and promise to help with any future explosions. It was his standard plan for apologies and generally it worked. So as he stepped through the magically appearing doors, John relaxed and squeezed his fist three times over. It was going to be okay. Everything always ended up like that. With a deep breath, he set his eyes on Sherlock. There was no turning back now.

John coughed a light and hollow breath to acknowledge his presence. Sherlock turned around instantly. He always moved in such sudden actions and somehow made them as swift as physically possible. There was not serenity within the teen, but only cutting elegance. "I asked you to get me my quill an hour ago… where is it?" The boy growled, shuffling his long snowy fingers through his forest of curls.

John bit the inside of his mouth. He gritted his teeth. He even tapped his toe- anything to suppress his frustration. And only then did he speak, choosing to ignore Sherlock's pompous statement. "I'm sorry," he said, "for whatever I did to force you to ignore me. Whatever it was, I didn't mean it and I was probably being a-"

But Sherlock cut him off.

"You did nothing."

As if John wasn't confused before. "Then why have you been ignoring me?" he asked with a head tilted to the side and eyes narrowed at the boy directly in front of him. What the bloody hell was going on? It wouldn't have surprised John any much more if a dragon smashed the Room of Requirement's windows in and ate both of them. Actually, for the wizarding world, that seemed fairly normal. This... this stubborn and cold and aggravating Slytherin wasn't normal. He was a robot. He. Wasn't. Real.

Sherlock swallowed once before talking. "There hasn't been anything to discuss," he said while he pocketed loose fists.

John was baffled. "Blimey!" He exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air, "there doesn't have to be a topic of conversation, Sherlock! All you have to do is talk... and even that isn't really required. We're friends. And friends like to be around each other." He paused for a few moments as if to give time for his words to seep into Sherlock's skin and dampen that metal heart of his. His next words came without a thought. "Are we even friends still?" he asked in a whisper, hands clutched at his side and body leaning intently forward.

And somehow, he'd already known Sherlock's answer before it trickled off his lips like cold water clogging in a drain.

"No."

It was all John needed. Amid a single and utmost final glance at the sodding bastard in front of him, John strode out of the Flat in mere seconds and left his formerly referred "friend" alone in the Come and Go Room with a stolen cat and a miserable attempt at a potion.


	5. Year Two II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just have to make things work on your own. And so John and Sherlock do.

Sherlock took the hardest toll.

Being without John did numbers to him physically. He seemed to forget that food, drink, and sleep were vital for life. All around him, his body slowly decayed from the lack of nutrients. He had made his choice a while ago too, just as John made his to apologize. Sherlock wouldn't near himself with John, because, in doing so, it would put the Gryffindor in danger. In no way would Sherlock risk his friend fellow student of the dangers that were logically possible. And Sherlock hated himself for it; the poor Slytherin sat in streams of shame constantly

John didn't react to the situation as Sherlock did. For the first few weeks he moped about, but did not rid himself of the few friends he had left. After he had forced himself to let go of the whole situation, John accepted his fate and glued himself to Mike, Albus, and Greg. And with some prodding, John began to enjoy his Gryffindor friends' companies more than he ever did in the past.

•••

Sherlock sat at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall (something he wasn't really accustomed to, seeing as he typically was alongside John and the Gryffindors) with an uneasy feeling. His astronomy paper rested on in front of him, as did his quill. There wasn't really a point of doing it, was there? He never had turned in a paper for that class before. Overall, Astronomy was increasingly-

"Sherlock, you must do your work."

He glanced up. Mycroft stood opposite him: one hand clutching onto his wand, the other cradling a series of books in his arms.

Sherlock scowled and cocked his head to the side. "Not a chance, Mycroft," he said with a slipping sneer. "How's the diet?"

"Fine, thank you," responded his brother. The Prefect's lips twitched up into something supposed to be a smirk. He was never really good at those. "But back to your work. Astronomy, I presume?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm not doing it." And while he said this, Sherlock rolled up his parchment. "What is it that you are here for? You're not one to simply 'chat'."

Mycroft grimaced. He placed his books down on the tabletop and sat contradictory of Sherlock. "You don't look well."

"Neither do you," Sherlock said with a huff, "but I've politely neglected that matter."

"Oh, dear brother, no need to be so resentful. I've only asked in concern."

Sherlock slid his belongings into his arms, stood up, and, before leaving the Great Hall, said, "If you want to fret for over someone, try Lestrade. He seemed rather down when your flying lessons were finished last year."

Once Sherlock was outside, his trouble wasn't over. There, on the stairs, was a Hufflepuff girl staining her cloak with tears. The Slytherin was about to dash away, to escape the misery he was about to put himself in by approaching her, but their eyes met. There was no dodging the dramatics of some trivial life now.

He sighed, gritted his teeth for a second, and slowly made his way over to the girl. "What is it?" he asked rather rudely if it were from her perspective.

"My mother sent me a Howler and everyone heard it," she said through muffled sobs. Her head fell into her hands.

"Just because you forgot to show up to one class doesn't give her the right to send it."

She looked up, slightly startled now, her eyes wide with curiosity. A tear drifted from her eyelashes, trailed down the length of her cheek, and cupped her jaw before she spoke in a somewhat stutter. "How did you know that?"

A slight smile itched at Sherlock's lips. He pushed it away. "Easy. I can tell your mother thinks very highly of you and only wants the best – your prim, proper, and perfectly fitting robes say that. She must have taken you to a tailor, as did mine. I can also see from your left hand that you write a great deal, far more than the typical student - probably because she expects you to exceed in your studies."

Sherlock paused, pressed his lips into a line once, and said, "I'm in your Transfiguration class and noticed you weren't there when attendance was being called. Molly Hooper, second year Hufflepuff. Evidently."

Molly's cries slowly stopped. She looked up again at the outlandish Slytherin. "You really think so…that she was irrational?"

He raised an eyebrow before peering down on her and saying, "not necessarily. I said what I understood you craved to hear. That's what people generally counter to on account of being distraught."

"What's your name?" she asked quietly.

"Sherlock," he rambled, heading up the stairs, "but I'd best be going so I may-"

She clutched onto his robes, preventing him to move any further.

He sneered.

"Did something happen to you too? You're looking rather green. Are you ill?"

Because Sherlock knew that she was the type of person to be persistent with her questions, he chose the easiest way out of the situation: telling the truth. And he swallowed some bile in his mouth before doing so. "My friend, John, and I had a bit of a fight. That's all. Good day!"

And he was gone.

•••

Because Greg was forced to stay at Hogwarts over the winter for unknown reasons, John persuaded Albus and Mike to holiday at the castle during the break for some fun. When Christmas Eve came around, the four boys were the only Gryffindors in the entirety of the school. They were scattered about the common room lazily - John sat in an armchair with his feet propped up over the side, Mike stood by the fire, Albus was perched atop a desk adjacent to the window, and Greg remained flat on the ground as he cracked one-liners every now and then.

"Okay, so a Wizard and a Muggle walk into a pub and-," the blond boy began, but was interrupted when Albus threw his hands into the air as of protest.

"Enough, Lestrade," he chuckled and then sifted his hands though his hair.

As Albus leaned back on his elbows, Mike's eyes shot open wide. "Oi," he gulped, "where did the pastries go?"

John shrugged, "Dunno," as he kept a firm grasp on his wand, which was effortlessly levitating the plate of desserts. Mike pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and shuffled to grab the floating dish. Greg grinned, and because he easily towered over Stamford, salvaged the bloody pastries for his friend.

"What?" John slurred, "are you all afraid of magic?"

Various forms of denials rushed from the other three Gryffindor's mouths.

"Then?" the blond asked, raising his eyebrows in arrival of a comprehending response.

Greg threw his head back in laughter, "Then what, Watson?"

He glared, and if the brunet were made of stone, John would have surely pierced through him now with his eyes. "Show me what you've got!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet as the other boys did of the similar.

"Duel?" Potter's son called.

Greg grinned, "Duel."

John paired with Lestrade and Albus to Stamford. It was an equal match and the duels were exceedingly intricate compared to the ones they formerly attempted as first years. Mike was prone to use the typical spells such as the Immobulus charm and others, but Albus easily blocked them. John and Greg's match was more thornily preformed- both would have counters and fascinating spells to throw at back and forth. Greg successfully made something levitate, but John knew how easy it was… he'd just done it with the peppermint pastries.

While pointing his wand at Greg with wide, clear eyes and just as he'd planned, under his breath John mumbled, "Colovaria."

In an instant, Greg's bright blond hair turned a perky blue extracting a few gasps from the boys around him.

"Bloody hell!" Mike exclaimed, jumping off the couch where he had previously been standing to stumble over to where Greg was.

Albus wasn't as excited at this. He turned his head from where he was standing. "Nice job, Watson," the young Potter said with a grin as he made his own way over.

However, John only shrugged. He couldn't think of any spells to fix Greg's now-sapphire hair and the color seemed to suit him. In a hilarious and embarrassing way, of course.

•••

John sat in front of the fire alone. He flittered through his new book: Quidditch Through The Ages, which Greg had given him on account of their agreement to try out for the sport when they became third years. The heat in front of him nipped at his fingertips and cheeks and the room was both eerily and peacefully silent.

His eyes caught into something that wasn't particularly there before. On the mantle of the fireplace sat a small red box sheathed with a velvet bow. This box picked at John so much that he hopped to his feet and clutched onto the gift.

Just as he slipped off the ribbon, something bit his ankle.

"Bloody Baron!" he cried in a tempted whisper. There, sitting slyly by his feet, was Gladstone. A smirk somehow managed to leap across her face and John noticed instantly how similar she was to Sherlock.

Sherlock. The name hadn't crossed his mind days? Weeks? Months? Hell, he didn't have the slightest. Either way, that one very word was raw and sensitive in his mind. While sitting calmly on the shaggy red carpet, Gladstone meowed.

And something, somewhere, told John to pick her up.

So he did.

The Gryffindor, with his blond hair and those smiling blue eyes, curled his fingers around the cat's midsection and puller her into his lap and began tearing at the present again.

But Gladstone nipped at his wrist.

"What is your sodding problem?" he spat, rubbing his newly broken skin, smearing a dot of blood onto his jumper accidentally. He'd have to bandage that later. John scoffed. Gladstone wore a smug expression on her face and purred to boast her accomplishment.

The words slipped out his mouth in a slippery seethe. "You little git."

She flicked her tail in amusement. He sighed.

And then a thought popped into his head.

A cage, a room… something to restrain the creature.

John collected the cat in his arms and enclosed her under a desk by packing cushions in at the sides. He rushed back to the fireplace, clutched onto the red gift with slightly shaking hands, and tore open the paper while the cat wailed her complaints from the opposite side of the room.

Inside was a note. One word was scrawled on it with messy, black calligraphy.

"John," it read.

Beneath the slip parchment was a thumb-sized fang.

But who had sent it?


	6. Year Two III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock inhaled and everything rushed through him. There it was… Fire. Tea. Ink. Kindle. Dust. Jam. And it was all John. Every last bit of that scent was John. Invisibility can sometimes burden one's mind.

The stalking began two weeks after Christmas break ended. It troubled Sherlock too much to stay away from John and, knowing that John wouldn't talk to him, Sherlock took the matter into his own hands.

He'd skipped his Charms class entirely to watch John research in the library. While using an invisibility potion he'd brewed up the night before with Gladstone's company, Sherlock slumped down in a chair directly next to John. He was close enough to see everything the blond was doing, but far away enough for John not to notice his presence.

The Gryffindor held the quill in his hand firmly while etching out words to some superfluous paper for Potions class. Sherlock could see the times he struggled to direct words when his toe tapped repeatedly. The fingers of John's left hand rubbed at his temple in concentration and his eyes almost never drifted from the parchment. He was full in thought and hadn't the faintest of someone watching his every movement just meters away.

Sherlock inhaled and everything rushed through him. There it was… Fire. Tea. Ink. Kindle. Dust. Jam. And it was all John. Every last bit of that scent was John. Then Sherlock realized how much he'd missed his friend's company. No matter if it was because he had to protect him, Sherlock's body defiled him every time he though of that night… because Sherlock wanted to be John's friend.

Sherlock saw John's fingernails digging into his tanned skin. He glanced at John's paper. Oh, but the answer was so obvious! How could he not have known? There must have been some way to help John without giving away his existence entirely.

Sherlock stepped away from the table. He rushed around the library (which was amazingly empty except for him and the blond) until he eased over to the potions aisle. Sherlock ran his fingertips over every book spine as he darted past them until he found one he needed. With frosty fingers he slid the book out of its place, glimpsed at John's hunched over frame a few sections over, and lobbed the book towards the ground.

It landed just behind John's chair. He looked back instantly and in a flash Sherlock ran over to the hardback and opened it very dramatically—practically forcing John to continue gawking at this magically moving book. The Slytherin flipped to the page John needed for the answer and shoved it closer to his shoe. The blond picked it up. He looked at it suspiciously… almost as if it were about to eat off his face, but read it nonetheless. John's expression lit up, he grabbed his quill, and he began to write.

Sherlock grinned and sat down next to him once more. John could be so oblivious to some things.

Was all of this—everything Sherlock was doing to protect John—was it all worth it? It was making both him and the Gryffindor emotionally distraught. Did Sherlock really have to do this? They were only letters from his said "parents" and although he knew they were forged, what harm could they really be? Was this all just a flamboyant and child-like way for Sherlock to cope with emotions or was there actually something needing to be hidden from him?

John was so…so human, so mortal and Sherlock would never be like him. He was kind and caring and humble. No matter how much he despised of someone, John made a point to be warm and to give him or her a chance unless, of course, they were threatening in some way. Then and only then would he break through his perfect façade. John was so complicated and simple at the same time and Sherlock needed him. He couldn't imagine a life without John now that he'd had one.

Sherlock had thought of every possible solution of the situation except they all seemed to leave John defenseless. What if not being with him left him vulnerable? Sherlock's mind spun and he had to stop himself from breathing heavily or else John would note his company.

Sometimes he would catch John's eye in Defenses or Potions or Astronomy (if Sherlock even cared to show up at those sodding classes, that is) and they would have those conversations again—those bloody arrogant looks that said everything silently. John would look at him as if he were nothing but a pest and Sherlock's hope would fall out of him piece by piece. The exchanges only lasted a second. John would soon be talking with one of his Gryffindor housemates. Sherlock would slump further into his chair with every laugh John bellowed and John wouldn't notice. It repeated so often that Sherlock seemingly locked himself inside the Room of Requirement and retreated only for food. Mycroft alone noticed this.

Speaking of Mycroft, the pompous seven-year prefect was more irritating than usual. He was constantly dragging Sherlock into vacant classrooms to have chats with him about the situation. Sherlock had known he was worried, but he could deal with things on his own. He wasn't a puny child anymore. Obviously Mycroft had known about the fight, he had eyes around the whole school, but he didn't actually see it. Even the high-powered prefect couldn't enter Sherlock and John's (and technically even his stolen cat's) version of the Come and Go Room.

Because Sherlock was skilled in potions, he learned how to use them in ways never but the selfish. He created brews and mixtures to take all of his pain away. Sometimes he'd make himself forget about John completely, but they never seemed to have a long-lasting effect on him. Days on end, Gladstone would nudge the passed out body of second year Sherlock Holmes with her furry black forehead, hungry for food. No one was there to help him anymore. He couldn't care to do it himself.

Before, the Slytherin thought human dependency was trivial, but now seeing it with his practically transparent less-lively eyes, Sherlock couldn't help but damn himself for all the mess he'd created. Because it was his fault. This hell he'd manifested, no matter the true intentions, killed him inside and sometimes in his darkest most potion-induced moments Sherlock forgot what he was living for. Without John, there was no point. All hope disappeared.

John scribbled on his paper now satisfied with his information before he stopped in his tracks. His body froze, eyes running wild in their sockets. They darted around the room, searching for something he believed wasn't there—but it was. He just didn't know it yet.

John dropped the quill and his hand immediately began clenching and unclenching. Where had Sherlock seen this before? Oh yes, right before he'd said he wasn't his friend any longer. It took everything for Sherlock not to devour himself right there in the library because it all felt so…

Numb.

Suddenly, Sherlock understood. In that moment, he gave up. John could go on and pick up his life without a Slytherin companion, but Sherlock? Sherlock crashed and crumbled and fell to his fate. When he hit the ground, Sherlock was no longer himself, for that boy had left months prior. Sherlock was now a corpse, living and fading all the same.

The brunet continued watching intently as John tried to regain himself from whatever had disrupted his peace. Had he finally noticed the Slytherin's translucent presence? Had he realized how stupid he was acting? Had he decided to forgive Sherlock? Had he-

In the far corner of the room, a door opened.

Greg Lestrade, the most gangliest of all boys, strode in and sat down directly opposite of John and invisible Sherlock. He tossed a large hand through his blue hair and glued a wide grin to his lips. John dived into reality immediately, his odd occurrence slipping between the floorboards and forever remaining unnoticed – except for Sherlock—because it could have been something; because John could have thought of him.

Greg decided to speak then and he did so with that hollow baritone he possessed. "Potions paper?" he asked, resting his head on his fist while staring down at John's parchment.

John didn't say much. "Yeah."

"And you're almost done?" continued the other Gryffindor.

"Oi, are you blind?" John said mockingly, "Because you can see for yourself, Bluebell!"

Greg chuckled at his newly acquired nickname and answered the question for himself. "Just checking," he said in a slurred manner before opening his The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection.

The two housemates didn't communicate again until John successfully finalized his paper. He rolled it up, tucked it into a pocket in his cloak, and looked at Greg curiously.

"Find him," Greg said.

John furrowed his brows and leaned forward inquisitively. "What?" he stammered, "Who?"

"You-know-who."

"Voldemort? Albus's dad killed him."

"In the name of Merlin, Watson…" Greg trailed off, shaking his head.

"Who the bleeding hell are you talking about?"

"Holmes."

His eyebrows shot up. "Mycroft?" he said, stunned.

"No you squib," Greg mocked droningly as he raked a hand through his sapphire hair, "Sherlock."

John gulped. "No. Absolutely not. I'm not talking to him."

"But you're not the same without him."

"I did," John retorted, pocketing his fits as he slumped further down in the wooden chair. "I apologized."

"Then do it again. You need each other."

"You sound like a schoolgirl."

Greg exhaled on a shrug. "I'm just hoping you'll cheer up soon because you don't seem… you anymore."

"He doesn't want friends," John stated, but as he did, it almost sounded like a question.

"He does," Greg said with a tired sigh, "I found him passed out in front of the Slytherin common room once and whenever we pass him in the halls his face is all sunken in and pale—"

John cut him off. "He's always pale, Greg."

"Not like this. You miss him, don't you?"

John didn't speak for a while, but when he did, his voice was a faint whisper. "I suppose."

Greg didn't reply. He knew what was to come. And was right.

"Okay, yeah, I miss him. I miss his laughter after long days of silence when it's still raw. Or when he looks all serious and he just bursts out in chuckles right then and there for no reason. Maybe I said something stupid, maybe he deduced something embarrassing about me, but he just does it. Out of nowhere. It's such a good, heart-felt sound, too. Or when we joke about Mycroft's diet.

"I miss his voice after we've just ran for our lives. When it comes out in pants and is pitchy. When it's fresh and sensitive and real. Or when he's been silent for a week. It's so… so new then. So odd. Or his deduction voice because it gets all low and he slurs his words together and it sounds like humming. When he tries to catch up with his thoughts physically and everything that enters his mind just spits out into reality. That's Sherlock there. Right there.

"I miss his half smiles when I tell him to get some sleep or to eat more because he seems to forget that his body requests these things to live. Or even that big, goofy grin that's exceedingly forced when he needs me to do something and how its morphs into a real one when I oblige.

"I miss when he exploded things just to get my attention or those glimpses I see of him where he looks gentle. And his smell. Dungeons, ink, and potions. I may be going mad, but I can smell it right now. I—Ijust miss him, okay?"

Greg, John, and Sherlock were all shocked.

Greg was surprised because he wasn't expecting this much out of John's mouth.

John was stunned because he didn't realize how much he noticed of Sherlock until now.

And Sherlock was shaken because he was right. John did miss him. And it was all his fault.

And worst of all, John could sense his presence.

The Slytherin contemplated choking down the invisibility reversal potion he'd kept with him now, to show John that he was right there and to tell him he was sorry, but then he recognized it. John would be mad. If he did that, John would hate him. Removing his invisibility would only keep things the way they were and Sherlock didn't want that. He only wanted John and his companionship. And staying in that library right next to him only made him want to speak to John. Visibly.

Instead, to restrain those selfish and stupid and dark thoughts he had, Sherlock rushed out of the room and ran to the Flat where he'd stay without food and without water. It was his punishment for himself for making John suffer so much.

•••

Three days. Almost three nights.

The Room of Requirement was not allowed to supply food.

Sherlock was not allowed to leave to room.

Because he deserved it.

Sherlock was sprawled out in front of the fire. Gladstone was curled up on John's bed. The room reflected warm collections of light and smelled of sunrise and sunset, but this humbling effect had not transmitted whatsoever to Sherlock.

His body cried for food and sleep as it began to shut down. The Flat spun around him as he felt himself deteriorating and a weight pummel him downwards. Nothing he saw was real and nothing he saw was fictional. All were one.

In a muddle of perceptions, John Watson pushed open the Room of Requirement's door.

He slipped his small frame between the two large sections of oak and spotted his friend struggling to grasp life on the ground. Greg was right: Sherlock wasn't doing well.

Sherlock's mind ran. If the Flat was designed to comfort his every need and the one thing he desired for was John's friendship, could it produce this very Gryffindor standing right in front of him?

Magic was a pain in the goblins.

It all wasn't logical. John hated him; John loathed him… so why would he be here now? The only possible explanation wasn't satisfying, but for rationality, Sherlock settled on it. The John Watson in front of him was a hallucination—a side effect from his potion.

But, for once in his life, Sherlock was wrong.

Because the John in front of him was very real indeed.

The Gryffindor kneeled next to the convulsing Slytherin. He brushed a few sweaty curls away from Sherlock's eyes and pressed his palm to Sherlock's forehead. His head was hot. Sherlock was in pain. He needed food and sleep.

In a quick instant, John ran out of the Flat to Accio bread to bring to Sherlock.

He sat by Sherlock and propped the Slytherin's head up onto his own thighs before attempting to feed him the food, but Sherlock wouldn't take it.

He tried and he tried, however Sherlock would not eat no matter how often he attempted and after awhile John grew mad. Sherlock should have been eating; should have been sleeping; should have been drinking.

John yelled. John screamed. John cursed his brains out in frustration because John was worried for his friend.

"You're a bloody fool, Sherlock Holmes," he wailed, "you left me by myself when you needed me the most and now that I'm here you won't let me help you, you bastard!"

Sherlock shuffled to prop himself up on his elbows to see John pulling and tugging at his hair on the fraying purple couch.

"You know, I hate that you lied to me… I know you did it… I hate you because you put me through hell and I hate you for not saying a word as you did it," the Gryffindor continued as he held his head in his hands. Sherlock sighed and fell back onto the rug – his body weight was becoming too much to handle.

It took awhile for John to calm himself, though once a few more minutes of childish behavior passed, he was back by Sherlock's side with that damned piece of bread in his hand.

"All right," he said in a rushed slur, "we're going to try this one last time and then I'm leaving. If you don't eat this you're going to harm yourself and I can't manage to see you like that even if I hate you're bloody guts right now. Eat."

And with a shaking hand, Sherlock reached up to grasp the bread out of John's clutch.

He coughed and then swallowed before speaking. "I-I knew you-you'd come… even as a hallucin-a-ation," Sherlock said with a dry stutter, "Because you're so… so… loyal. You- you would have been a-a good Hufflepuff." Sherlock stopped talking so he was able to eat the food gripped in his almost-transparent hands.

John nodded. Took a series of deep breaths. Chuckled. Previewed a slight smile. "Whatever you say," he said.

Once Sherlock finished with the loaf of bread and consumed three chalices of water, John left. Sherlock still believed he was of the imaginative mind.

•••

The Slytherin sat at Mrs. Hudson's beaten and bruised and uneven wooden table when the knock on the door came. With three prompt strikes, the stranger retreated from the step to wait politely.

Sherlock slurped his tea as he watched the groundskeeper stand up, clutch at her hip, and then shuffle to the door. She opened it.

There stood a boy. He had somewhat short, shaggy blond hair, mildly absorbing blue eyes, rosy cheeks from winter's bite, and a Gryffindor jumper sagging around his limbs.

There stood John Watson.


	7. Year Two IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets into a fight with Sebastian Moran.

_There stood John Watson._

Sherlock placed back down his cup and glued his sight to his hands in his lap.

"Oh, I'm glad you could make it, dear!" Mrs. Hudson twittered, moving aside so he could step in and stomp the snow off his shoes, "Let me go get you a cuppa."

She shambled to where the kettle was and began preparing John's tea. He stood hesitantly in the doorway. "John, take a seat dear," said the woman from the kitchen as she finished.

Sherlock still hadn't looked up—even when John sat in the chair opposing his and a saucer with warm tea was carefully placed on the table. He shot glares and glares and glares at his palms. As if that would help the matter at hand.

Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms awkwardly while watching the two boys persistently look away from each other and took her chance. "I have to go feed the hippogriffs, you know how they can get" she sighed, shaking her hand in the air, "I'll only be just a minute. You boys behave."

And with a final wave, a chirped "Yoo-hoo!", and with a shut of the back door Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were alone.

John swallowed and stood up from his seat, tailing a pathway to the door Hudson hadn't exited from. "Right, well. I should be off. Mike has gone and-"

"Sit," Sherlock interrupted, "You have plenty of time and I need to discuss something with you."

John turned around and responded, "You've said enough already."

"No, I haven't. I lied, John. And although you may think I was out to hurt you, it was for the best." Sherlock dug his fingernails into the crisp skin on his wrist, continuously drawing deep crests that were uncomfortable to form – but he deserved it. He always did.

What John said next made his nails soar further into his flesh. "I don't want to hear it," coughed the Gryffindor with a hand clasped around the doorknob.

Sherlock peered down at his self-injury, smashed his eyes shut, and spoke in a windy monotone. "You do," he recalled, "I was in the library. You said it yourself."

"You spied on me?" John cried, his jaw slackening in surprise.

Sherlock gnawed at his lips. "Books don't just magically open to your answer, John. Be reasonable."

"Merlin," John said in a mutter, leaning against the door now with a shaking head.

His fingernails sunk deeper and deeper into his complexion with every word said. "Just listen to me," the Slytherin pleaded, lifting his eyes up and settling them on John. They were glass, his eyes, or so they made out to be. With a translucent glow to them, Sherlock's ever-changing irises guided John's to look inside him and see all the pain locked up within walls of flesh. But John already knew. He could tell…just by watching at him.

The pair of second years watched each other intently before John finally spoke up. He crossed his arms, slumped down a bit next to the wall, and said, "You've got two minutes."

Sherlock took a deep breath before words gurgled out of his mouth like chilled water on a breezy fall day. "I received a set of letters from my parents a week into the school year instructing me to stay away from you because of your blood. If I didn't listen to them, it was said I would be punished. The letters, John, were forged. I attempted to discover who had sent these instructions, but I had no luck and leaving you seemed like the most factual way to keep you safe. My actions were only for your protection and I apologize for what I've put you through."

John blinked a few times. He eyed Sherlock with his large, engrossing sky blues and choked on his words a bit before they came out comprehendingly. "You couldn't have just told me?" he eventually decided on, his puppy irises still scraping holes into Sherlock's already-vulnerable soul.

"Your reactions had to be real," detailed Sherlock, "If the sender were a student, they could easily see that I was near you or you were merely acting. You're reactions had to be genuine in order for it to work. I have meanwhile realized that you are better protected if we are together, for the letters' purpose was to separate us and leave us both defenseless… which it did."

Silence crept through the gamekeeper's hut like fog on a Monday morning—quickly and persistently. The only sound to be heard was the steady breaths from John's chest and the less-rhythmic ones of Sherlock's, for he could barely allow air into his battered lungs. When some oxygen finally slipped through his throat, he scrambled to say the words before it was too late. And somehow, these words were more powerful than the ones in which brought them on.

"I'm sorry, John. Really."

Amid a single glance at the intricate person in front of him, John closed his eyes and smiled—for the first time in over four months that Sherlock had caused. It was all the Gryffindor needed. "I've known," John said, a loose grin lightly tacked to his reedy lips.

Sherlock's eyes stretched out wide. But …but he was always correct! How could he not have seen that John knew? He'd been following him for weeks invisibly. "You have?" he said immediately trailing, eyes daggering holes into John's.

"Everyone," John said steadily, "needs at least one person in his or her life. You're no exception."

It was out practically before it had entered his mind. Maybe it never even did. "That's illogical," Sherlock responded.

John fidgeted with the sleeve of his gold and maroon jumper while speaking. "Sherlock, human nature isn't illogical. Although it took me awhile to realize the position you had put yourself in—no matter the incentive—I waited for you to sort through your thoughts. I waited for you to come to me. And you didn't, you left that in my hands. I was trying to give you the advantage in this."

Sherlock's eyes became incredibly electric at that moment, however the electricity didn't spread to John. They sank into their sockets and easily exposed how he was feeling deep down: sadness, self-loathing, disgust. He attacked his wrists with his fingernails again. "I didn't know," he said, his voice no more than a whisper.

John twisted a loose piece of gold thread around his fingertip when he said, "And that's okay. I didn't expect you to. But I appreciate you apologizing."

Sherlock looked up the same time John did. The Gryffindor smiled at the Slytherin; the Slytherin smirked that iconic smirk of his back. And amid that thick jungle of rambunctious curls, the tops of his ears fumed red and those wild eyes of his now previewed a different emotion—one much more satisfying.

He seemed so vulnerable as he said it, but it only told the tale of what he'd emotionally been through for months. "So…are we—?" he asked, eyes still trained on John's sky blues.

John nodded once curtly. "Yes. Of course. Definitely."

And Sherlock's smirk drifted into a grin from one reddened ear to the other. "Great."

•••

"So you really thought I was a hallucination?"

John's words shuffled out of his chapped lips in huffy breaths of warm air before entwining with the coldness of winter at Hogwarts. The walked side by side – so close that their elbows occasionally bumped and they stepped on each other's paths in the snow—but it was only to conserve warmth… or so they persistently told themselves. Sherlock's hair was a mess from the piecing wind (and possibly jesting with the ghosts earlier that morning) and his skin was exceptionally pale; however this lack of a vivid complexion was healthy. The winter sometimes did that to him.

Sherlock nodded once. His eyes were trained on the mud-stained snow his shoes were pressing into with every stride. "The potions I create sometimes do that."

"Potions? For what?" John said with a cocked eyebrow. "Are they not like the ones we make?"

Both Sherlock and John knew that his response could be a lie and both Sherlock and John knew that recent happenings prevented it. Sherlock rarely lied now—except for when he said that he prefers the Gryffindor common room rather the Slytherin's or that he's only used the Prefect bathroom once or twice for experiments. And so he said the truth because it would please John. "Some erased my memory temporarily… others knocked me out. Anything to forget about what happened or to confuse me about the situation as a whole I brewed and swallowed."

John continued watching Sherlock from behind his white-sprinkled eyelashes. "Like Muggle drugs?" he whispered into his scarf, which he had pulled taut around his neck just before doing so.

Sherlock looked at him then. His glance was brief, yet noticeable if one was focused. Fortunately, John was.

"Basically," Sherlock said with a sigh.

They turned the corner. Up ahead, in the far distance, was the Whomping Willow. Albus talked to a redheaded Gryffindor girl (John recalled him mentioning his cousin Rose before—that could have been her) nearby, but the gurgling of the wind hid their chatter.

John's eyebrows mashed into a single line. Sherlock didn't need to see the action to know what his response would be. "But why?" John stumbled.

"Someone needed to punish me for what I did."

John's watch of Sherlock fell to the ground while he spoke. A rush of air hit him from behind, which proceeded to nip at the hairs on the hind of his neck and made a shiver trickle down his back. Coated with a sprinkled layer of white, his face flushed red (something Sherlock's never seemingly did), and John sniffled rather often. Sherlock sighed and looked back at the ground. "I…hurt…you," he said, words hissing out of his mouth in warmed exhales, "for no reason at all, John. I made you suffer!"

John swallowed. "But it's not all your fault. I didn't do anything to fix it."

Sherlock became silent for a second or two—his lips mashed together as he thought—but then he grumbled something in that sodding baritone of his. "Why would you? I was the one that went wrong."

Sherlock glanced at John again and noticed the shivering hadn't stopped. He shrugged off his overcoat and pushed it into the Gryffindor's arms. "Take it," he mumbled, "you'll become ill."

John glared at Sherlock intensely.

Sherlock shrugged and pocketed his hands slyly. "Take the damned coat. I'm not going to use it."

And after a moment, John shrugged it on. The hung at oddities of his frame and seemed to double his size, but, as always, Sherlock was right. "You know," he spat sarcastically while propping the collar up like he'd always seen Sherlock do, "you're a large arse."

His response was quick… and witty – nonetheless illogical. "I get it from Mycroft."

They're silent for a while, both boys, until a snort escaped from John's mouth. It practically echoed in the silence of the weather, but Sherlock heard it. And he couldn't help but to do the same.

John and Sherlock laughed. Together. As one.

It was the first time in months.

Behind his curls, the tips of Sherlock's ears blushed crimson. "I missed this," he said.

John nodded once curtly and fixed his gaze on something up ahead. He smiled. "I did too."

•••

"I need information. We're going to the restricted section. Now."

Sherlock's voice was like a snake. It slithered through John's ears, embedded itself in his mind, and slowly faded away. He could still feel the pathways of where its hissing echoed though his brain as Sherlock moved his mouth from John's ear.

They were sitting in the Great Hall, both second years at one table. Only a few people shot Sherlock looks when he sat with the Gryffindors, but it was becoming such a normal sight that less and less brought them to care. Sherlock relaxed with one leg propped up onto the other, ankle pressed against the opposite knee. His hands fumbled with some parchment he had concealed in his lap and his eyes roamed every inch of reality in front of him. Those silvery-blue and green and crystal eyes of—

"Let's go."

Sherlock was looking at him, the parchment rolled up and tucked away inside his cloak, and he was stepping away from the table… forcing John to stand and follow.

He was always faster than John with his walking and John hated him for it. John had also hated him for his sprouting height. His strides were exceedingly large now, much more efficient compared to their first expansion out into the Forest, and he practically hovered off the ground. Or so it seemed. John's gait would be considered chunky and odd and contorted, never really organized in any set fashion, and he often found himself nearly tripping in attempt to keep up with his friend if he were to slip into his thoughts too much.

Most students were in the Great Hall (it was dinner, of course) but a few, such as the dynamic pair, were out and about, roaming the castle as they pleased. John only noticed a handful on their way to the library. They didn't cause much harm… except for a very fair skinned Hufflepuff with (almost bleached) blonde hair. A scar cracked at his skin by his eye. It looked fresh. About a week old, John guessed.

His words were barely audible, but it was just enough to be captured as John and Sherlock walked past. "Freak," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and turning in the other direction.

Many people had taken the typical account of calling Sherlock names. This snide Hufflepuff wasn't the first to it. However, it was the first occasion John had witnessed it. Of course he'd known about it all—Sherlock would make minor comments of it every now and then, although they had little-to-no effect on him—but it was an entirely different aspect hearing it said aloud. John turned on his heel.

It took Sherlock a few seconds to realize John was no longer trailing behind him. By the time he looked back, John was already engaged in a furious conversation with the male student he'd previously chosen to ignore.

"A bit defensive, eh, Loverboy?" the Hufflepuff spat, raising his chin and looking down on the short second year.

John scoffed. He grinned. He laughed. "For a Hufflepuff, you're not very tolerant," John said with a puff, but his next action spoke louder than the witty remark he splashed about the other student's face. Because right then and there, John Watson connected his fist with the boy's jaw. And punched him. Because he didn't care what who he was, no one would poke fun at Sherlock. They didn't know him. Not like John did.

John knew Sherlock inside and out. They, those selfish seething bastards, only saw the parts he allowed them to. They did not witness when Sherlock panicked to save his friend from the jaws of a three-headed beast, nor the time his face shot up in glee when John stepped on the train. No, they only knew him as a cold, deducing machine raging to simply broadcast every secret locked inside human flesh. But that wasn't him. And this time they would learn…John was sure of it.

The Hufflepuff let out a grunt of pain as he clutched his jaw. John threw another punch knowingly at this boy, which squared him in the gut. The boy coughed, gritted his teeth, and lunged at John... successfully tackling the Gryffindor and pushing him to the ground. John wasn't taken aback too long. He shoved the boy off of him and kicked him in the side, but the Hufflepuff wasn't going to give up. Hufflepuffs were dedicated, but Gryffindors were daring.

The boy punched John on his cheek. And bloody hell, did it hurt. He also, when John was back on the ground, hurled his foot forcefully onto John's arm and a large crack echoed throughout the corridors. John snarled through chapped lips and shuffled to prop himself up… but he couldn't. As he struggled with this simple task, and as the Hufflepuff boy attempted to throw himself once more onto the Gryffindor, a voice erupted from the distance.

"Enough!" it cried.

The voice belonged to Professor Podmore. The man with his straw-colored hair and robes thrashing about behind him sort of like Sherlock's, rushed into the scene.

The Hufflepuff froze. John's body quivered.

"Infirmary. Now," the Professor ordered… but to who exactly? John squinted, seeing Sherlock and someone else. Another Slytherin, it seemed. He was smaller the Sherlock, about a good ten centimeters shorter. From what John could see, he had scruffy black hair and large brown eyes.

The Gryffindor glanced at his arm. Broken, he guessed. The skin around it was growing pale.

John's eyes closed.

He was out cold one Sherlock, on account of Podmore's orders (or really his own intuition), dashed to the Gryffindor's sideHis face was beginning to swell and form bruises, weakness dribbled through his bones, and his body as a whole became limp.

The Slytherin scooped his Gryffindor friend into his lanky arms and commenced the journey to the infirmary. Podmore and the unnamed Slytherin and Hufflepuff students made an exceedingly slow trail behind him.

•••

Sherlock peered down at his battered friend whose face was bruised and arm was damaged. It was all for him. All the pain he was experiencing was for Sherlock—because someone had called him a freak.

"They said you'll have to stay overnight," he stated, threading his fingers through his darkened hair, "but you'll be discharged in the morning. The Hufflepuff will be here another day. Podmore took twenty points from you both. You'll be fine."

John looked past Sherlock. There, on the opposite side of the room, was the Hufflepuff boy. He was asleep.

Sherlock's eyes were glowing in the dark of the infirmary. His curls were snarled and knotted and messy—his hands must have fumbled with it out of frustration. His lips were slightly bloody and chapped. He looked paler that usual.

John didn't speak for a while because there wasn't much to say, but Sherlock soon took the matter into his own hands. "You're a fool," he sighed. Sherlock nudged John in the side with his wand. "They didn't bother me," he said.

John grinned a small grin and grabbed the Slytherin's wand so he'd stop. "They bother me. You're not a freak."

"I think it's a personal opinion, really."

John used Sherlock's wand to levitate the Slytherin's scarf off his neck. "Yeah," John said, "but they shouldn't say it. I don't care if you pissed off with it or not. I am."

Sherlock reached up with his frosty fingers and clutched onto the scarf. "You shouldn't have. It was foolish."

"You did say I was a fool, remember?"

Sherlock smiled a bit, yawned, and in a whisper-like tone, said, "Thank you."

"No probl—" John started, however he cut himself off. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Wednesday."

"Merlin's beard, Sherlock! It's nearly Saturday. Come here."

The Slytherin shook his head. "Not tired," he mumbled, looking away timorously.

"You just yawned. Come. Here."

John slowly moved so he was only taking up half of the double bed.

"It's fine, John, really. I'll go back to the Flat." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest.

The Gryffindor looked at the Slytherin sternly and his eyes crinkled at the sides.

The Slytherin raised an eyebrow.

The Gryffindor raised both.

"I can't make sure you actually sleep if you're in the Flat," said John.

Sherlock took a deep breath, muttered, "Might as well be hung for a dragon rather the egg", and did what John had told him to. Once he was positioned next his friend (and John's injured arm was repositioned correctly), Sherlock said, "I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," John rambled, sinking down into the mattress "and don't even get started on the fact that Pomfrey will find you here in the morning …or that you have things to do then. In Merlin's name, Sherlock, just sleep."

Sherlock snickered behind his sheet. "Whatever you say, Mummy."

And soon, without much more needed effort, Sherlock slept with John's body heat gnawing generously at his spine.


	8. Year Two V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery with Fluffy and the silhouetted figure continues.

Sherlock only dozed a few hours at John's side before he woke. The Slytherin skimmed out of bed and began his journey to the Flat. He needed to make a potion.

It was late at night. The castle was very dark—he had to use the Lumos charm. All students were in their beds. Well, all except for one… and Sherlock just managed to crash into her.

She was a Hufflepuff student with her red hair tied back in a buttery ribbon, an oversized mustard colored sleeping gown pulled taught around her, and an armful of books. She was a second year, by the looks of it.

"Oh," she babbled while picking up her recently dropped wand, "Sorry. I can be such a klutz sometimes. Pardon me. I'm really sorry about this."

She then looked up as the large baritone spoke in an attempted whisper. Her eyes widened before speaking.

"Hello Molly," the Slytherin said in a rush while he dashed past her, already on his way to the Flat.

"Sherlock?" she said, partially stunned. "Sherlock! Wait! Are you friends with John again?"

He spun on his heel, pocketed his clenched fists, and cocked his head to the right. "Yes," he said, "but I think we could have gotten into another quarrel just recently if I had acted differently."

"What happened?"

Should he tell her? The question rolled about the corridors of his mind and it bumped into a few walls on the way there. Would there be a benefit to it? Possibly. Was it really necessary? No, but the action would help both of them.

Sherlock mashed his lips into a line before speaking. "He beat up a Hufflepuff for calling me a freak. I didn't care. He had no effect on me."

With a few steps taken to clear some distance between them and a deep breath, Molly responded, "He was trying to protect you—whether you like it or not."

"I thanked him."

"That's a good start… but did you mean it?"

He exhaled. "Yes."

She looked at him for a while. Frizzy hair, disheveled robes, and practically glazed over eyes. "You've been sleeping with him, haven't you?"

Sherlock glared at her partially while doing his best to solve her in the dark of the hall. "You were just recently in the storage room on the fourth floor. Studying, to be exact. I can tell by the traces of dirt in your fingernails and the smudge on your neck. But what for? All the classes second years are eligible for don't have tests today or tomorrow—it's Saturday… the early hours of it. Or maybe you were writing to someone: A family member? A friend back at home?" He paused for a moment.

"Oh, I see. To someone you fancy—and he's here at this school."

Molly's fair cheeks flushed fuchsia at this. Why did he always have to be, so-so…alarming? Startling? Careless? It didn't matter anymore, the letter. She'd already been able to ask the questions to the person himself. She would just tear up her work once she got back down to the basements.

"Uh," she stuttered, "yes, actually. But back to my own question…"

Sherlock swallowed. "Yes about the sleeping, but I've woken. I need to go do something." He turned around once more, already gaining distance to the stairs.

"Sherlock?" Molly called out.

He didn't move this time, but only stopped in his tracks.

"Write him a note. He'll be worried to find you've left when he wakes."

Sherlock nodded and waited until he was sure Molly was gone before returning to the Infirmary.

•••

**__**

John.

I'll be in the Clock Tower Courtyard all morning.

Drink the potion. Pomfrey doesn't know much about bone repair… at least not the immediate manner of it.

S

The Gryffindor kicked a pebble with his hand-me-down oxfords as he walked. There, sitting casually on the edge of the fountain was his best friend and a stolen black cat.

"Raise your arm. Your left arm," Sherlock said in a slight shout as John walked the length of the enclosure to reach them. He did as he was told, raising his arm with ease. Without Sherlock's potion he'd taken earlier, he would be in excruciating pain by doing such a small action. But now he could lift his arm up just fine. Sherlock was a genius.

"Good."

Gladstone meowed.

John licked at his lips while he stood in front of the Slytherin. "Why are you here?" he asked. Usually Sherlock could be found in either of their common rooms, the Great Hall, or the Flat—but never a courtyard. Courtyards were too… normal.

"I'm teaching the cat about moss growth."

John peered down at him with his you-are-the-oddest-person-I've-ever-met-but-I-enjoy-you look. And smiled.

"What?" the Slytherin asked.

"Oh, nothing," he retorted, "just you…and the fact that you're talking to a cat about plants. Alone. In a courtyard."

"It's very logical. Animals tend to be-"

John cut him off. The exhaustion nagging at his bones made even small things into annoyances. "Why am I here again?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm. The Gryffindor stepped closer to the fountain.

Sherlock clasped his fingers around Gladstone's frame and pulled her into his lap, grimaced at John's newfound stubbornness while shaking his head, and said, "I'm not just going to let the anonymous letters and a mysterious robed figure slip out of my grasp, John. The occurrences are related."

John forced his lips into a straight line before responding. "They could be. Right. Okay," he said in a slight slur of thought.

Sherlock's frosty and slightly flushed (at the joints) fingers glided through the cat's fur. He looked off into the distance, which caused John to sigh very noisily. Sherlock always was one for the dramatics—whether he'd care to notice it or not. "The student could have been doing something he wanted to be kept secret... so when he saw us he knew he'd be too vulnerable to tackle more than one person. He planned to separate us. What was so important that he was doing? I don't know, but he didn't want an audience. I simply don't understand why he is still 'punishing' us for it now. The night in the forest with Fluffy was almost two years age—it would be entirely tiresome to continue this game. Then again, I'm not the only person at Hogwarts to grow bored, am I?"

John shrugged.

"I can't be."

From her seat in Sherlock's lap Gladstone purred, slipped out of his grasp, plopped off from the cobblestone wall enclosing the fountain, and scurried over to John's ankles. She affectionately buffed herself and her scent across the Gryffindor's shoes and jean's hem. "Isn't he smart?" the small creature practically sang.

John crossed his arms over his chest with another heaving exhale. "That could be, yeah. But how do we know it's him for sure?"

"Tactful reason and patience, Watson."

A smile tugged at Gryffindor's wiry lips and his words were spoken with casual ease. "Then," he grinned, "I'm all for it."

Both second year boys soaked in the silence for a while. John pocketed his freezing fingers and suddenly recalled something…something that his fingertip just brushed against.

John slid the thumb-sized fang out of his pocket and placed it in front of Sherlock. "I got this anonymously for Christmas. Gladstone was there—" the cat meowed at the mention of her name, "—and tried to prevent me from opening it. I don't know why, but she tried to. Could something be suspicious about a beast's tooth?"

Sherlock examined the object pinched in two of his fingers. He turned his head (and the fang occasionally) at odd proportions to see it with different lighting and began with a huff that shot a warm exhale out into the battle of chilly wind. "A snake, possibly… or a large animal by the looks of it. I'd say around maybe twenty years old—possibly more. It's very sturdy and a bit like it still had good use when it fell or was taken out."

He stopped. "Wait," he demanded, "say your last words to me again exactly as you did before."

John fought with himself to remember what he'd aforementioned, but he did eventually. "Could something be suspicious about a beast's tooth?"

"Oh," Sherlock moaned, "right. Beast. You've blindly known all along. The fang belongs to the dog. Fluffy. A smaller one in the back of one of its heads, but a tooth nonetheless. Why hadn't I seen it earlier?"

The Gryffindor shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno," he said in a mumble.

Sherlock continued dashingly. "The person who gave this to you, I'm presuming, is the one we saw in the Forest. And when going off the current information, the most logical reason is the tooth itself is a warning—a warning because the same person who sent the fang also sent the letters and released Fluffy on us. This is wonderful, John!" he exclaimed, standing up in joy and clasping the Gryffindor with both hands by the shoulder. John remained still with a small smile. "It's like Christmas!"

"Sherlock, it was Christmas."

The boy smirked and released his friend, but before he did, he said, "You're smarter than you look, John."

John shrugged.


	9. Year Three I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something freeing about being disowned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Year Three.

Sherlock Holmes stared out his window with glazed eyes. It was raining outside the Holmes' manor and the wind licked at the earth with a chilling and unforgiving tongue.

Mummy and Father hadn't talked to him since he stepped off the Express. That was a month ago. They were too busy congratulating Mycroft for finishing his studies. And discussing with Mycroft about his career choices. And talking about future plans with Mycroft.

Apparently Mycroft had decided to become an Auror since he was a tad too young for Minster of Magic. He had only just recently-graduated. There was still time before he could become "head of the Magic Government".

Sherlock sighed and dragged his fingertips recklessly through his forest of curls. Mycroft couldn't only overpower just one person; he had to overpower a nation. What an arse.

Outside, something flickered through the wind. Like a smudge of paint dripping off a canvas, the beige blur dove up and down in the air—too large to be a leaf, too small to be a piece of parchment or the likings…and then it clicked: an owl. Something was being delivered to a Holmes. Sherlock rushed to open the window immediately once he made the connection.

Hadar, John Watson's personal owl, fluttered inside and ruffled his feathers just as Sherlock rammed his window closed. Water droplets flew this way and that while the bird shook off the rain. Gladstone hissed and scurried from her spot on the bed.

The Eurasian owl dropped the parchment from his beak. Although it was damp and the ink was smeared dramatically, Sherlock seemed to manage. It read:

__

Dear Sherlock,

How are you? Are you enjoying summer break? How's Gladstone?

My summer's been good, if you're wondering. Or maybe you're not—my ink color says it all, yeah? Maybe it's how I form my "G"s or something. Right? I don't know.

My dad got a promotion so we were able to go on a holiday down in Italy. We just returned. It was fun.

What are your plans for the rest of break? Mum said I could have a friend over for the weekend. Want to come?

Write me back soon.

From,

John.

P.S. Hadar can stay with you for a while, if you want. I don't need to be a genius the know you miss me too.

Sherlock slipped the paper under his mattress just as his mother stormed into his room. She didn't need to say anything really—just her presence alone was enough for Sherlock to understand that dinner was ready. But Mrs. Holmes opened her mouth and spoke to her son for the first time in months.

"You don't have an owl," she commented brashly, crossing her arms and pursing her lips. "Explain. Now. …And tell the truth."

Sherlock only made himself more comfortable on his bed. A response wasn't needed—she'd already known. She was only testing him now.

But Sherlock didn't give in. He was better than that.

"It's John Watson's, isn't it?"

Sherlock didn't move a muscle.

Mrs. Holmes only dug her eyes into his skin and carved out his soul with one, mere expression.

"You're talking to him again."

•••

Three distinct knocks called on the Watson's front door.

"I'll get it," mumbled John as he clicked the television to pause. He pushed himself off from the couch, waled (rather sleepily) towards the entrance, and clutched onto the handle with a twist. The wind took it from there, lashing the wooden door open rapidly, rain pouring inside and against their beige welcome mat. A darkened figure stood on the porch, his silhouette outlined by the faint and measly streetlights and tattering rain.

John knitted his eyebrows with concentration. He squinted. If only he could make out a feature of the stranger's face… some hair, a nose, a chin, a neck. Anything really. Anything to justify that this person wasn't an enemy or a stranger.

"Are you going to let them in?" Harriet moaned from the couch just before she slurped loudly at her tea, "I'm waiting."

"Yeah, yeah, Harry. One second," John said half-mindedly. He was still peering at the person in front of him.

And then finally, John was able to identify him. The piercing, silvery-blue eyes said it all as they screamed at John from behind dampened curls and moist skin.

John's jaw dropped. He ushered the person inside. "H-Harry," he said with a prominent stutter, taking the boy's wet coat. He hung it on the hook, same with a grey and green scarf, "this is m-my friend…Sh-Sherlock H-Holmes."

Harry cocked her head to the side to see the soaked Slytherin, her lips still occupying her mug's rim. "Are you sure he's your age?" she asked.

Right then, Sherlock shot her a splitting look. His hissing eyes peered insults into her soul and his arched brow told her to sod off. Harry only scoffed, sinking into the couch further.

John turned to his friend, taking his case from him and beginning his way up the stairs and towards his room, which was the second door on the left. "If I've learned anything from you, other than how to be an arrogant git, I've learned how to pick out the obvious.

"You need a place to stay," he said.

Sherlock nodded. "I got into a quarrel with Mummy. Apparently they did send the letters. They wont allow me in the family manor if I continue to be friends with you… so I came. Here."

"You're giving up your family for me?"

"I didn't have much time for thought… I simply picked one option and went with it."

John nudged open his bedroom door. Before putting Sherlock's case on the ground near his wardrobe, he said, "Give it up. I'm actually flattered that you came and stuck up for me."

Sherlock huffed, scanned over the blue painted walls along with the ground scattered with various articles of clothing, and said, "You're room is very… fitting."

John shrugged. "I suppose," he said. It really wasn't, though. He just slept, changed, and relaxed there. The room couldn't capture his personality, could it? Maybe to Sherlock it could have. Sherlock always saw things through different perceptions.

John rubbed at the thighs of his jeans awkwardly. "Did you happen to bring Hadar with you?" he asked.

Sherlock scoffed. Obviously he didn't. "On his way," he mumbled, eyes still zipping around the room.

John nodded once, otherwise dismissing the subject. "Want to go downstairs? Harry and I were watching Doctor Who… She's probably having a fit right now, waiting for me and all."

"Doctor?"

As they walked down the steps, John explained what he could to Sherlock. Harry yelled at him when they arrived, saying that if she were to wait any longer she would just go over to Clara's house, though she stopped once John pressed play.

•••

"If you're going to try out for Quidditch, you're going to need a broom."

Sherlock stood in the Watson's back yard, each hand gripping a sleek and glistening broomstick. And with virtually a flick of the wrist, he tossed the shorter one to John.

Once he barely caught it, John said, "Merlin. Where'd you get these?"

The Slytherin looked down at John as if he was a new case to solve. A side of his mouth hitched back into that iconic smirk no one but he possessed. Sherlock's mouth was somewhat open, eyes crinkling at the sides, and general satisfaction draped over his porcelain skin. His voice was deeper as he talked, too. "I have my ways," he said coyly. Hell, could the boy ever stop growing? John shook his head. No need to think such erratic thoughts.

The Gryffindor stood dumbfounded in his place long enough for Sherlock to shoot his eyes open wide with excitement and say, "Well? What are you waiting for?"

The Slytherin was already mounting his broom when John reluctantly stuttered, "I-I don't know how to ride it."

"Sure you do," Sherlock said, "All first years learn. You just haven't been at it in a year or two. I wouldn't make you do something I knew you weren't capable of, John. I'm not that cruel."

"I'd like to test that," he said, but he was almost sure Sherlock didn't hear him. The birds were chirping too loudly. However, Sherlock did, and while John was figuring out his way onto the broomstick, he allowed himself a quiet chuckle. John didn't notice.

"Now that you've finally figured out how to mount it, you're going to want both hands in front of you. Right…Good. Watch as I kick off. See? Just a slight push will do you just. Once you're in the air all you have to do is move your body side to side slightly to steer. Be careful not to go too high—simply because you live in a largely vacated area doesn't mean Muggles can't see you. Trust me, John... I won't fail you. Just kick off a bit and—"

John's feet dangled off the ground a few centimeters. Just as Sherlock began clapping with a huge, foolish, bright grin splitting his mouth into two.

"You're a natural… Knew it."

Wind rippled through John's hair as he flew faster and faster and faster. The sensation it gave him was like running through the Forbidden Forest at night with some rabid beast on his trail, like sneaking around the castle past curfew, or like the duels he had with his Gryffindor housemates. Adrenaline eroded John with the rush he addicted himself to. The rush he lived for. The rush he'd die for. And maybe so, the rush that made him a natural flyer.

He skipped and he soared, he glided and he tore through the sky… frankly, he was even faster and better paced than Sherlock, although the poor Slytherin would never admit it. Out loud, at least.

They continued riding for another good hour or two before bracing their feet upon the ground again. Mrs. Watson was waiting for them at the back screen door. Lunch was ready. "What did I ever do to get such a talented son?" she remarked as she cleaned off her hands with a dishrag.

John attempted to return Sherlock's broom to him, but Sherlock held out his palm sternly. "Keep it," he ordered.

•••

Sherlock, John decided on the Express, was a different person while in public. More anxious, more arrogant, and most of all: an arse.

John was fine with not sitting with his Gryffindor friends—he didn't quite mind it actually (he would see them soon enough once they got into their dorms), but when Sherlock threw fits like this, which was regularly, John wanted to stay far away from the reckless Slytherin.

It was worse when other people had to witness his tantrums as well.

This time he was going off about Ravenclaws. Apparently, according to the prodigy, they were absolutely and incredibly senseless. Their knowledge only spanned limited, desiccated topics and their egos were more prominent than Merlin's beard on a windy day. Sherlock was very good at exaggeration, John also decided with a nod as he gnawed at the inside of his mouth, eyes trained on his friend.

As the teenage Slytherin continued his seething, a head popped into their compartment. "Something wrong?" it asked.

The man, by the looks of it, was very young—but not young enough to be a student. Possibly around the age of twenty, give or take a few years, the Gryffindor supposed. His hair was a shimmering copper and eyes a bright shade of green. His chin was dotted with orange stubble, but John guessed it was only to make him appear more mature.

Sherlock's eyes flickered to the man's face, but didn't say a word. So John did instead, "We're just having a very strenuous discussion, sir. That's all. No worries."

The man in the doorway wore a pine green, velvet overcoat that drifted down just below his knees. With a vest to match, he was very obviously in a high class. Or so it seemed.

He slid the door open a few meters more and stepped in. "Teddy Lupin," he introduced himself as.

John shook his hand, "John Watson, Gryffindor third year."

Sherlock didn't introduce himself though—he greeted the man with a shrug. John had to do the work for him. "That's Sherlock Holmes…Slytherin. Also a third year."

"I don't see why informing Lupin of our houses is so important, John," mumbled Sherlock.

John kicked Sherlock in the thigh with his foot. Teddy chuckled. "Why are you here?" John asked to the man at the door, "you're clearly not a student."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this.

"Professor Podmore retired unexpectedly—something to do with family issues. I'll be your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

Sherlock cracked his knuckles and said rather snottily, "But you've only just recently graduated."

"McGonagall has been kind."

"Noticeably. This is out of her wits."

Teddy flashed a smile and responded, "So it seems… but I can't help but to be grateful, eh?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. His lips slipped into a one-sided smirk.

After a decent time of silence, Teddy said, "So you despise Ravenclaws. Why?"

John looked up from his lap, which was where Gladstone was sleeping, and peered at his new teacher. Bad idea, he tried to convey without speaking, but Lupin never noticed.

"They're stupid," retorted the Slytherin.

"They're put into that house for their intelligence."

"Not exactly."

Lupin crossed his arms, leaned against the doorframe, and chuckled. "You always want the last word, don't you?"

"You weren't a Ravenclaw yourself… you were a Hufflepuff. So why would you care? Oh, right: because you're loyal. Someone in your life was sorted into that house, which you love very dearly, and you are willing to defend him or her. Knowing that both your mother and father died in the Second Wizarding War, I'm assuming that this Ravenclaw is either a close friend or partner, and, going by your ruffled collar from the departure, obviously it is your lover. Female. With blonde hair." Sherlock sat up straighter, cleared his throat, and pressed his palms together before saying, "And yet they say Slytherins aren't smart."

"How'd you know about the hair?"

Sherlock grinned, "A loose strand has latched onto your coat."

Lupin looked surprised at all of this. Both Sherlock and John didn't.

•••

"I said could you hand me a quill."

Sherlock groaned and rammed his head into the wall…one? No…two times. His anxious fingers struggled into fists and his eyes squeezed shut. All he needed was a quill to write down the ingredients he used but John wouldn't hand him one.

Sherlock's eyes opened widely and his gaze flickered to the beds. His own, the one on the right, was pleasantly made and tidy (he rarely ever slept at all and if he did, it was generally on the floor or couch) whereas John's was messy and the sheets were bundled near the end.

John's chair, positioned directly opposite of Sherlock's, was vacant as well. So was his desk and stool in the other corner. The carpet in front of the fire only contained a furry black cat that slept soundly. Gladstone purred in her sleep.

But Sherlock could have sworn his friend was there just a second ago, lounging on his mattress, rambling on and on and on about some plans he had the next day with Greg, Albus, and Mike. And then he was talking about how he needed to go grab a book from the library…

…And that he'd be right back.

Oh, stupid. Stupid. Sherlock should've known. The missing shoes next to the door were practically staring him in the eyes now—almost tantalizing him with his dulled idiocy and ego.

While his fingers found their way to his forest of curls and began tugging the trees, the door creaked open. Sherlock's hand flinched over to the table, clasped around a small glass vial, and quickly emptied the contents into his cauldron—he wasn't in the mood to show emotion, especially anxiety.

John was welcomed home with a large explosion coming from the corner of the room.

Sherlock coughed repeatedly and stumbled to the wall behind him. His palms pressed firmly to the purple texture as the dark cloud drifted away from the space. His head felt a bit fuzzy, and once he was able to regain focus, he noticed he was covered in soot—from head to toe. No centimeter of icy skin was left clean.

The Slytherin grimaced.

John strode smugly to the small table adjacent to his chair and picked up the Daily Prophet. His eyes skimmed over the words, not really reading them, as he said, "Looks like someone missed me." His lips were drawn back into a haughty, slipping smirk.

Sherlock only brought his thumbs to his eyes and cleared some ash from his vision. His nose wrinkled with repugnance.

"Where have you put Fluffy's tooth?"

John walked to the mantle and opened a small box. He handed the tooth to Sherlock.

"We need to visit the Forest."

John sighed, shot Sherlock an annoyed look, and turned back for the door. Sherlock grabbed his cloak with a swift flick of the hand and followed.

•••

Sherlock stood up from the ground, wiped the hound's blood off his fingers (onto his cloak), and turned to John. "They're hiding something."

John gave him a confused look, but nodded nevertheless. He trusted the Slytherin's judgment.

"I have all that I need."

John couldn't help but to ask now. He was practically aching just to know why he'd come out to the Forest this late at night. He was fairly sure that Sherlock was engulfed with the immense amount of potions he'd been creating… why would he need a trip to the Forest? He'd just gotten ingredients from—

"Footprints… two, actually. I've followed them the whole time. One set's bigger than the other—" Sherlock pointed to the ground. John followed with his eyes, hands clasped respectfully behind his back. "—and it's statistically likely that one or both of them is male. Judging by the size, they're students, however, one pair is exceedingly large.

"Originally my plan was to examine the area where Fluffy was to see if he'd come out again, but I saw the tracks. Not many people come out to the forest, John. Not unless they have a good reason, which apparently these two do.

"You can tell it's Fluffy's blood just by the ghastly scent," he dove down in a swift movement, coating his fingers once more with the dark, velvety liquid casing the ground, "—and by comparing the leaves it's soaked on we know this has happened recently. No other three-headed dogs are in the Forest. But why, John? Why?"

The Gryffindor shrugged.

"There's something missing. Where is it? Where'd they put it?"

John peered and his friend. "Sherlock, what are you even talking about?"

But Sherlock didn't respond… he was too busy running a mess in the near area, eyes penetrating every branch and every blade of grass.

"The hound, John! Where is it? Did they eat it?"

"Ah no, but—"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. Hell, the boy even dropped his jaw at the sight. "John," he stuttered.

Sherlock gulped.

There, standing in front of him, a good length away, was Fluffy.

Seeing him this second time certainly proved one thing: Fluffy was not fluffy anymore.

Scruffy brown fur trickled along its chest. There was a tender cut up near one of the necks where blood had oozed out not so long ago. It was dry now, nevertheless the wound still being fresh. Fluffy's body pressed against the trees in a suffocating struggle. The three heads had grown fiercer since their last spotting. The hounds were ravishing, in a menacing, terrifying way.

Sherlock stood, stunned. His hands quivered. He wasn't able to look at the creature this long before. Fluffy was a monster.

Blinking only when it was really necessary, Sherlock's feet rooted themselves to the ground as his eyes latched onto the three-headed dog.

From somewhere behind him, John screamed. Something was wrong, but it hadn't dawned on the Slytherin yet. And then his voice caught in his throat when he noticed Fluffy charging at them.

The noise the beast created while tearing through the forest was similar to thunder…to three different storms all at once. He knocked down trees in his way and dug small craters into the ground with each clawed step.

Fluffy's growl gashed through the grounds every time he pushed aside a tree and continued thrashing closer, but the boys were too startled to move. The creature thundered closer and closer until on of the three heads was only a centimeter from Sherlock's nose.

John screamed for the second time.

A Thestral appeared atop the hound.

Its body reflected the moonlight as it mounted the three-headed beast. The Thestral's wings loomed over all three heads and the leathery, murky skin was pulled taught around its skeletal frame.

But something wasn't right.

Sherlock had read about Thestrals just the other month in his Care of Magical Creatures book. Only someone who had witnessed death could spot one and both John and Sherlock hadn't yet. Thestrals were lured by blood and apparently it didn't matter which creature it was from.

The Thestral leaped from Fluffy's back and threw itself in front of the boys. A clicking noise echoed from its mouth.

Six eyes darted from wrath to terror in and instance. It wasn't long until the deathly, sickly creature had frightened the three-headed beast away.

The Threstral turned. Something was really wrong.

John stepped forward and clutched onto Sherlock's arm. Sherlock could feel John's flesh quivering even through two layers.

They weren't supposed to see this creature.

"John?" Sherlock whispered, voice shuddering more than John was.

But he was never able to finish his question.

The Thestral's talons retracted in on themselves, almost as if they were hot wax melting into feet. Human feet. Sherlock's eyes roamed upward and he could see the final touches of the transformation—looming, shadowy wings gliding loudly into pale arms, bulging bones flattening and misplacing their tint, an opaque beak slipping back into a light grin. Teddy Lupin ran his hands through his hair and his matted, sticky mane trickled into a collection of shorter, softer copper waves. Though, throughout all this, one thing never changed: his emerald eyes always remained. Sherlock spotted it then, the eyes. How had he not noticed it before? Thestrals lacked pupils. Teddy did not.

"Hello boys," their professor said, adjusting his velvet overcoat more promptly around his shoulders and sides. He wore a vest to match it and a green scarf. "A bit late to be out and about in the forest, don't you think?"

"You're a Metamorphmagus," Sherlock said in astonishment. John stood by his side unmovingly, eyes stretched wide with something between fear and shock. He dropped Sherlock's arm.

Lupin responded with a pleasing laugh. "Yes. Much rather have that than the werewolf bit my father had, hmm? Be a pity if I did." He pursed his lips, looked at the two third years for a moment, and then added, "Come with me."

Panic washed through them like saltwater in the lungs.


	10. Year Three II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock eavesdrop in on a _curious_ conversation. John tries out for Quidditch.

John and Sherlock stood in the Defense Against the Dark Arts room while Professor Lupin shuffled about in his office. He appeared shortly with a stern look stifled across his young face. "Now, the Shielding Charm is difficult to master, though it is possible. And because you two seem advanced in your…studies, I feel the need to teach you this. I can't always be in the forest to protect you."

Sherlock sneered as he leaned against a table. His long, nervous hands slipped into his pockets. "We don't need protecting," he said with a grin.

A flick of energy splashed Lupin's face as he smiled. "Clearly you do."

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. John prodded him in the side with his wand.

"Why are you teaching us this?" John asked.

Teddy smiled again. "It would have been handy when I was your age."

"What happened?"

The Professor looked at his shoes for a moment and continued to as he spoke, words a bit muffled because they were directed to the floorboards, "I'd prefer not to discuss—"

Sherlock smirked. His own words were crisp and clear. He, on the other hand, wanted them to be heard. "Clearly he killed the werewolf who attacked his girlfriend's father and his own father," the Slytherin boy said, now watching his professor with a keen eye. Sherlock continued while Lupin gazed off into the distance, "When Greyback escaped from Azkaban around two years ago, he threatened to kill you because you lacked your father's 'gene'. Up until now I'd thought it had, but after seeing you tonight I can say you are clearly a Metamorphmagus. While Fenrir was missing and threatening you, you tracked him down and killed him. The Ministry claimed he was killed by a member of his pack when they found the corpse, but it was you...shifted into a werewolf. "

Professor Lupin's eyebrows furrowed. "How did you—?" he began, but the Slytherin student interrupted.

"I notice things. We've been through this before."

"…Oh."

John swallowed and said quietly, "Sorry." Sherlock never seemed to do that for himself.

"No, no. That was great. I've never seen someone with that talent. It was astounding… really," Lupin said while looking at Sherlock as if to confirm that yes, he really was only a third year. A brief moment of denial ran through his eyes. Sherlock grinned. "On the train I thought it was obvious about Victoire and the houses, but no one except her and a few close friends know about Greyback. I'm just stunned…no need to apologize for him."

"It's just that some people tend to poke fun at him for it. He's likely to give out information they don't want known." John rocked back and forth on his heels, watching the twenty-one year old. He and Sherlock communicated through raised eyebrows and nods.

"I see."

Sherlock remained silent for a reason only John knew. It was just like that first day on the train all over again when John didn't yell at him for determining his house. Lupin was the same—both times. The Slytherin watched his Professor keenly. "Continue explaining the Shielding Charm to us."

And so he did.

When Lupin was finished detailing about hand movements and citations, both third years took their hand at the new spell.

"Protego!" both third years said loudly, wands raised in the air. Around each student laced a glistening vein of crimson.

Sherlock's face faded from its unpleasant expression and grew more pleased at the sight of his successfully produced charm. He didn't need to be a Metamorphmagus to do so.

"Catch," said Teddy as he threw textbooks in both John and Sherlock's, but they couldn't catch them. Both books sprang off their newly formed shields.

After they had tested the charm a few more times, Professor Lupin informed them about a much more difficult spell that he thought they could master.

"In order to produce it, one must have a happy memory or thought to base the charm."

Sherlock knew it instantly. The Patronus—one of the most famous and most difficult spells of all time. Once Lupin was finished explaining this and drumming through the fact that it was a challenging spell (and that they shouldn't beat themselves up for not getting it on the first try), John made an attempt.

As John conjured up a memory of his selection, Sherlock noticed the way his face narrowed and his forehead laced with concentration lines. And then he said it, "Expecto Patronum!"

But nothing happened.

John's previously intently face slipped away with a mere shrug of the shoulders. He doesn't care—he didn't think he'd be able to manage it on his first try. However, Sherlock is not the same. He wants to master this spell on the first try with all of his stubborn little heart.

Through his Palace, Sherlock ran out of the corridors and down a long snowy hill. At the nape of the slope sits a small hut where an old lady lives. He skids to a stop just in front of the door and places his warm palm on the coolness of the handle. He can feel the stifling bite of winter's injection on his neck as he pushes the door open. Inside sits himself and John Watson, both paired with a cup of tea not planned of being consumed. He leans back against the door and smiles slightly. This is it; this is when he was happiest most.

Mind Palace John smiled at Mind Palace Sherlock and he couldn't help but to notice his own ears fuming red as he did so. He could see it in his own eyes: acceptance. Finally, after so many gruesome months could he learn to be decent again. He no longer had to hate himself, no longer had to despise every trickle of blood pounding through that cursed transport of his.

"So…are we—?"

John nodded once curtly. "Yes. Of course. Definitely."

Sherlock spotted his own grin. He was sure this one was different than the others; he never usually smiled like that—with his lips practically spurting up to his ears and his eyes crinkling at the sides. "Great," the younger version of himself replied. And it was enough.

"Expecto Patronum!" Sherlock cried.

From the tip of his pine wand, Sherlock's Patronus sputtered out in a graceful, twitching elegance. Taking the shape of a lone frosted wolf that howled upon its arrival, the Patronus darted around the room with a glittering grace. Sherlock followed his wolf's lean footpath with playground eyes as his wand guided it to render around the air almost without thought. John and Teddy's eyes did the same. It was nearly impossible, unheard of actually, to produce a Patronus correctly on your first try. At least, for people other than Sherlock Holmes it was.

"That's remarkable," Lupin said in a stunned exhale.

John did something similar with an exaggerated dropped jaw. "Bloody Baron," he muttered, raking his hand through his sandy hair while his unmoving stare locked onto the prancing creature.

Sherlock's slender wolf leapt around the room arrogantly. He pounced off shelves and even hovered by the dragon skeleton for a moment. Throughout the great dance his wolf preformed, its fur ruffled off its spine in a modest jump, like snowflakes gracefully sprinkling the earth before distinguishing at first touch.

"Interesting," Sherlock said as he influenced his new creature to dash sophisticatedly into the air once more. Before its albino paws could come into contact with anything, the wolf's body shattered into millions of flurries and rained down into the classroom.

"Sherlock…that was fantastic," said John.

"Excellent," said Teddy.

Sherlock pocketed his wand in a casual manner and leaned against the wall. A pleased exhale slipped between his chapped lips.

"Quite the night," Professor Lupin said, "and you two have been up late well enough. Best be for you to head off to your dorms. McGonagall would have my head if she knew about this… especially just in my first month here."

The boys exchanged a few more words with their Defense teacher and headed out of the room. They turned left.

On the way back to the Flat, with adrenaline chilling their spines and flushing their cheeks scarlet, Sherlock's attentive ears picked up something: a voice echoing from just around the corner. His eyes followed the noise and Sherlock spotted two looming shadows itching up the wall. The owners of the voices must have been near a wall lantern.

By the sound of it, it belonged to a male student. The voice came to his mind as young, soft, and (if voices could be described in such ways) slightly round. "Say that again! Say that again and know that if you're lying, I will skin you," it hollered.

"It didn't touch them," responded another. This voice seemed slightly timid, but its monotone was deep and earthly.

"And how is that?"

John took a step back, but Sherlock only concentrated more. This was curious, very curious. What didn't touch whom? Who were they?

The anonymous voice continued its banter in a singsong-like voice, no less. "You can't just leave me at the peak to get off by myself."

"A Thestral 'ttacked it. But I haven't seen s'meone die before."

The anonymous voice rose to great heights. "Don't lie to me, Seb," it bellowed in its endearing, but thrashing tone.

"What the bleeding hell—" John began, but he was cut off when Sherlock pressed his palm to his mouth. The Slytherin glared at him, his eyes alight with a moonlit fire.

"What was that?" said the first voice.

"Dunno," responded the raspier.

John's eyes widened. With his hand, Sherlock motioned for him to follow. And once they passed and exited the corridor, they ran—fast and frantically—for their lives.

"Take my hand," Sherlock panted, "it'll be easier."

"Where are we going?" John barely managed as his response.

"The Flat—it's closest."

John didn't respond, but simply clasped Sherlock's outstretched hand. They continued running, breathing oxygen in and pumping their souls out. In and out. Right foot, left foot. They didn't really think much as it was happening, but the two third years knew they were being chased through the castle past-curfew. So they ran, and ran they did.

The pair of footsteps continued to echo behind them. John and Sherlock's heels dug into the floor as they sprinted.

But John stumbled and fell.

Sherlock could see two silhouetted figures stretching up the walls of Hogwarts as he crouched to help the Gryffindor up.

And somehow, they managed to continue at a steady pace and reached the Flat in record time, gasping and starving for air to fill their bellies with.

In between breaths, John said, "That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

Sherlock cocked a smile as he clasped his hands above his head. He read once that it was supposed to help with oxygen intake. "And you've been in the jaws of a three-headed beast."

"All thanks to you," John grinned.

•••

The morning after, Sherlock was drinking tea. Where he got it, John didn't know. House-elves? A friend? No, unlikely. Himself? Only if he was feeling productive. Either way, Sherlock was drinking tea and he was doing it very loudly. It was rather annoying.

To distract himself from this, the Gryffindor scratched at his neck. And after that he shot daggers at Sherlock with his eyes while his fist propped up his head. "Who is Seb? Do you know a Seb?" he eventually asked.

"Yes."

John's jaw twitched. "Care to say?"

Sherlock didn't. He sipped at his tea furiously.

The Slytherin did this for a while and soon was drowning in John's expression. Finally, he spoke. His voice was lower than it usually was. "He's a Hufflepuff, John. You're very close with him."

John puckered his lips before saying, "What the hell are you talking about? Sherlock, the only Ravenclaw I'm even remotely close with is a girl with who works on Herbology assignments with me in class."

Sherlock cleared his throat, locked eyes with the Gryffindor, and said, "John, Seb is the student you got into a fight with last year—the one who broke your arm."

John turned pale. If Seb was being bossed around last night, did it mean that someone was more powerful than him?

"I'm not lying," said Sherlock.

"I believe you. Honestly, Sherlock, I do."

The Slytherin raised a brow and slurped his tea loudly.

"C'mon. I do. Really. You wouldn't lie to me," said John.

"Oh, but I would," Sherlock responded.

"Not with this," John replied, "not now. Seb's voice was the same. I heard him both times myself. It was exact…a perfect match. As for the other voice, I'm not so—."

"The Slytherin Sebastian was with the night he beat you up," Sherlock chimed in.

"He did not beat me—!" John exclaimed.

"Merlin," Sherlock sighed, "he did, and if you'd listen to—."

"I tackled him! I won!"

"John, I'm not getting into this."

"Fine. Just know that I beat him."

Sherlock mumbled something inaudible under his breath and took another drag of his tea. He smirked.

"What? You're doing that thing with your face, you know." John asked.

He shook his head smugly and stared into the depths of his brew. "We need to watch Seb… especially the boy he was with when you two got into a fight. It's only a realistic assumption that the Slytherin was the anonymous voice. Watching him closely will assure my beliefs."

John stood up and tossed a piece of parchment down onto Sherlock's lap. The brunet didn't flinch. "Animagi," the Gryffindor stated, "due Thursday. One-thousand words, if you can manage."

"As if I didn't have anything else to work on," Sherlock said sarcastically as John exited the Slytherin common room. He headed right, starting his journey to Charms.

Hogwarts was quiet this particular morning. The halls were only accompanied by a few mumbles and it actually wasn't that chilly for mid-November. Usually he could tell the temperature changes just within the walls of the castle, but that was when he was less busy. Now he was running around with Sherlock, which, in itself wasn't really that unusual at all—he'd always done that with the Slytherin except this time they were solving mysteries.

Mysteries. The word alone was enticing enough.

But hadn't they always been solving them? They were, still, trying to figure out who the student was on the night Fluffy attacked John.

So much had changed since that first train ride to Hogwarts, the first step into the castle, the first night in the Flat. They were so young then. And, yet, it was only their third year. They still had a great deal of times ahead of themselves.

As he mindlessly thought, John continued walking. Turning past corridors, and classrooms, stairwells and students. And he was practically through the door of 2E when a hand clasped onto his shoulder and spun him around.

"I thought this was over," he muttered, grunting as he was led away. Hopefully Flitwick wouldn't notice.

It was always an empty classroom. Always. Mycroft's signature.

"We constantly do seem to meet in the most unpleasant quandaries, don't we, John? May I ask… how is my brother? Well, I suppose? Or meager? The latter seems more reasonable to me, but you do know him better."

"You were the one that brought him tea," John said sternly as he trained his eyes onto the Auror, "he didn't go and get it himself."

"Hello John," was all Mycroft said. His lips twitched into a conceiving grin.

John rested a hand on a desk and gripped onto his wand with his other. He nodded once curtly. "Mycroft."

"I've come on behalf of Sherlock's overall wellbeing. Because he has been kicked out of the Holmes' Manor, I haven't been able to keep a close eye on my brother. I was hoping you could relay information about him to me now that I've finished education here."

"Sure. But on the topic of Sherlock's health—."

A rush of worry darted here and there over the older Holmes' face. "What is it?" he said with a stammer, eyes wide.

John mashed his lips into a line before saying, "Does he have an issue with food? You're obviously very, very well fed, but he's as thin as a pole. Why 's this?"

Mycroft scoffed, raised his eyebrow promptly, and said, "He never as a child had a taking towards it."

As John left, he called back in a singsong voice, "Try letters next time. They won't get me out of class."

Mycroft's nose twitched with disgust.

•••

Hogwarts' corridors were buzzing with life as John and Greg walked through them. Their bellies felt as if they were floating up near their lungs and, to be honest, their nerves made it fairly difficult to breathe.

Whether he was biting his lip, silently cursing to Merlin for the stomachache he had coming, or shivering with cold sweat, John found that his worries seemed to seep under his skin in every possible way. What if he made a fool of himself in front of all his housemates? What if he dropped the Quaffle… flew into the goal baskets?

Earlier that day John had confronted Sherlock in his own common room and asked for the Slytherin to come and watch his Quidditch tryouts. Sherlock didn't actually reply—just looked up from his book entitled Forbidden Potions, shot John a quizzing look, and chuckled. He then continued with his elected studies, forcing John to stride unhappily back to his dorm.

"As long as we don't accidentally fall off the brooms, we should be fine, yeah?" Greg asked cheerfully, nudging John with his broom-clad hand in the process.

The shorter boy shrugged and peered at the ground. "Yeah," he mumbled half-heartedly to Greg, who was now fiddling with his sapphire hair. Apparently it continued to fall into his eyes during unpleasant moments. Or maybe it was just a nervous habit, but either way he would not quit fidgeting with it. "And at least we waited a few years before trying out. We've gotten to practice on our own a bit," he added, forcing a small smile onto his lips.

Outside, once they'd exited a courtyard, John noticed that the sun wasn't shining, but the wind was at a good pace…and, thank Merlin, it wasn't chilly. Without a stinging bite to the air, the weather was quite mild—perfect for flying. Up ahead, the Quidditch pitch stood like an enormous statue waiting to be conquered. John gulped. He stopped in his tracks.

"The Hat put you in Gryffindor for a reason, mate," Lestrade encouraged as he continued walking ahead. John sucked up his courage and followed.

Once they arrived at the pitch, a tall Gryffindor with bright yellow hair instructed them to stand with the others. There weren't many students waiting to try out this year, John noticed. A few second years, a handful of fourth years, and two third years other than themselves: Rose Weasley and a boy John shared his History of Magic class with. To be honest, John was rather shocked at the amount of students there—he had expected more and somehow the lack of people waiting to make this year's Quidditch team eased him a bit. Maybe this wouldn't be as difficult.

Albus had said earlier that he wasn't up to flying around on a stick for enjoyment, even if John believed him to be an excellent Seeker just as his father was. Mike, on the other hand, related his excuse to schoolwork. Apparently it was taking a hard toll on him this year and his Mum and Pop threatened to take him out of school if he failed any more exams. Although both boys weren't trying out for Quidditch, they stood in the stands, decked out with all their red and gold apparel, waiting to cheer on their friends once they mounted their brooms. When John looked up at them, both third years waved, but something was missing. Actually, someone was missing. Sherlock Holmes wasn't there. He was too busy stuffing his nose into a book about poisonous potions to care about John's activities, let alone interests.

John let out a dreadful sigh and rubbed at the back of his neck with his palm. Greg noticed and only dug his broom into the mud further.

At this time the Gryffindor captain began talking. "We're going to try and keep you all here as little as possible… we know there are some exams scheduled for the remaining days of the week, so help us and make this quick, clean, and fast. No blagging, blatching, or blurting and most especially… no haversaking. If we catch anyone doing these things you will be asked to leave the pitch immediately and return back to the castle. Are we clear?"

The group of students responded chaotically.

"By the way, I'm Louis Weasley, and this here," he jabbed a thumb at a girl with brown hair, "is my assistant. Shout at us if you need anything." Louis paused, took a deep breath, and then continued. "Alright, I need everyone to separate into specific positions. Desired Seekers should position themselves to my left, Beaters to my right. And then I need and the Keepers down at the end of the field near the goal baskets. Don't mount your brooms… wait until I get there to give you instructions."

John looked at Greg. He had told John earlier of his intention to try out for Beater. John, on the other hand, eyed up the Keeper position—blocking Quaffles seemed interesting enough. Being placed as a Chaser wasn't horrible either, really. But seeing as something unworldly tugged on his jumper and directed him to the goal baskets, John pressed one foot into the soggy grass after the other. Keeper is your position, John Watson, it shouted in his face, tiny droplets of saliva pelting at his skin, blocking Quaffles will be like breathing.

If only Sherlock could hear him battling with himself now—how he'd snicker! A bright grin would slip through those ripe lips of his and a throaty chuckle would form in the bottom of… Oh. Right. Sherlock wasn't with him now. Just Greg. Sherlock was back in the Slytherin common room. Not caring.

John pinched his lips together. He would not do this now, not here. His main intention needed to be doing well with his tryouts, not fussing over his pompous friend. He shouldn't be worrying about whether or not Sherlock had even given thought about the Gryffindor's feelings when he blandly dismissed him with a roll of the eyes. Merlin, John needed to get a tight grip on himself. And it needed to be quick—both he and Greg were almost to the end of the field.

As the boy with gushing blue hair attempted a joke to ease the situation, John forced out a laugh. It was the best he could administer. He was just glad at least one person cared enough to make him feel more comfortable with his nerves.

They stood in this smaller group as Louis started off the Seekers and Chasers. As he sauntered his way over to the goal baskets, John's grip around his broom—the one Sherlock had given him—tightened. Maybe Sherlock did care. After all, he'd refreshed John on flying in the summer, even given him a broom to keep and use for this exact purpose. Maybe John was just overthinking this all. Probably the nerves, he decided. Or maybe he was going mad.

As Louis rambled off various instructions, John's mind fumbled so much that he had to ask Greg what was going on just before they mounted their brooms. In which he replied, "They're going to take turns pelting Quaffles at you while you block them. The Keeper with the most saves will be asked to join the team. Runner up will be asked for back up. You're up after this ginger bloke."

John scratched at the back of his hand as he said, "Right." He stopped. "Good." He scratched again. "Great."

"You alright, mate?"

"Fine," he said, but it was a lie.

•••

Sherlock was still busying himself with Poisonous Potions in his common room when John finished his Quidditch tryouts. The Gryffindor hustled inside, perspiration attacking his skin and hair a wreck. Once he spotted Sherlock in the corner (with his nose infinitely stuffed into his book), John hurried over and began babbling nonsense before he even stopped walking.

"Tryouts were as easy as Azkaban. The Captain kept saying I was fantastic throughout the whole thing. Tried for Keeper initially but Louis suggested I take a try at Chaser so I did and…Merlin, Sherlock, it was so easy. Almost like breathing, actually. He guarded the goalposts as I aimed the Quaffle. I got it into the goalbasket forty times, Sherlock! The best was thirty-six out of fifty! I got forty!" John exclaimed with a light zest to his voice.

Sherlock didn't automatically respond to the Gryffindor's tedious speech. Instead, he watched John with a blank expression before cutting the silence in half. "Forty three," he corrected with a shut of his book. Sherlock stood.

John's eyes widened and his mouth slackened as he stepped back. "You utter… you, you dingbat! I knew it! I knew it!" he exclaimed, scrunching his fists thoroughly while he paced around where Sherlock chuckled. A few Slytherins sitting near by shot him annoyed looks, but John didn't seem to notice. "I-I knew you were there! I knew it!"

Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his mouth to suppress a large grin dwelling on his lips. "You handled the stress quite well, actually," Sherlock managed to say without a laugh, "I never knew you had such equilibrium."

"So why didn't you tell me you were coming? I wouldn't have been pissed!" John countered.

"You do better under stress. It's in your blood…you're a Gryffindor for Merlin's sake."

John jabbed a finger at Sherlock and locked his eyes on his unruly friend. "Sherlock Holmes," he seethed. John wasn't ever good at being serious. His mouth always found a way to betray him by flipping up into a flamboyant grin and his eyes couldn't really match his words. "You shut your bloody mouth."

"If you want to shout, I suggest we go somewhere else. Not all Slytherins have any amount of tolerance," Sherlock said while his hand attacked the curls on the back of his scalp.

John scrunched his fist once and replied a bit more quietly, "Fine…fine. But we're not done."

Sherlock only chuckled. He tucked his book under his arm, heaved his hands into his pockets, and strode out the room. John shuffled to catch up.

Sherlock, instead of sauntering his usual way to the Flat seven stories up, led John to a disused classroom on the fourth floor. Gloomy shapes of old desks cowered in the corners while stacks of chairs took spotlight inside the sunlight gaping through the windows. Sherlock picked one off the pile with grace but didn't sit down. John did the same and seated himself across from where the Slytherin's vacant chair was. "Should I even ask as to how you found this?" he said.

Sherlock frowned smarmily. "I've come into recent contact of a map of the school," he responded. The map was actually nicked from Albus Potter one day after Care of Magical Creatures, but Sherlock purposefully left that information out. John might have start questioning him and he didn't really feel in the mood to answer. "We're not here to talk about maps. I lied to you and came to your Qudditch tryouts. Feel free to continue your shouting…no one will hear you now."

John's lips twitched, parted, and then mashed into a line. "I'm not going to shout."

"You're frustrated. It's normal," Sherlock remarked. It was in fact very normal—John did this quite often. Sherlock would cause an explosion or ramble on with (apparently) offensive comments and sooner or later John would lose it. At that point he'd yell until he felt better. Sometimes he kicked furniture, but Sherlock hadn't seen him do that in months.

"I've already screamed. I'm fine," John replied, voice flat, eyes trained on Sherlock's face.

"You're frustrated."

"Yeah. Bloody hell am I pissed, but I'm good now. I'm not going to shout… I just wished you didn't lie. Might have done even better at scoring and all, you know, but I am glad you came…Even if I didn't see you there," John said.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back as he paced in front of his chair. His eyes scanned the room quickly. There wasn't much light coming through the windows, although they were a fairly good size. Clearly this room had been out of function for over thirty or forty years—dust was caked on every surface. Sherlock had only visited this place once or twice before and his trips were always at night. Coming up with John was the first time he visited the disused classroom in "proper" lighting. Now he could see the other objects shying away from the light. There were old quills, a great deal of leather bound books, and he even spotted a cage for an animal tucked behind a stack of chairs.

Sherlock's eyebrow flicked up in thought before he dashed to the corner and grabbed something that caught his eye. It was a (very, very) grimy chess table that he placed between the two chairs. He sat down.

"Mycroft doesn't like to admit it, but I've beaten him at Wizard chess more times than he's eaten cake without Mother knowing," Sherlock explained as he organized the pieces.

John cracked his knuckles. "Just because you won against my friends doesn't mean that you can win against me," he replied smugly, "I did just become Gryffindor's new Chaser."

"It's not official," Sherlock replied.

John laughed, "Oh. But it will be."


	11. Year Three III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John spend Christmas break at Hogwarts and then receive a letter from Mycroft.

John and Sherlock continued their private lessons with Professor Teddy Lupin throughout Christmas break. The Watson’s had sent John a letter explaining that if he wanted to return home for the holidays, Sherlock was more than welcome to join him. But John picked against it—he’d always found Hogwarts at this time to be more magical than usual.

On the first Monday of break, Sherlock decided he wanted to busy himself with research in the library. It wasn’t for a class, of course. While Sherlock stuffed his nose into books about three headed dogs, John busied himself with a paper for Ancient Runes until he grew restless. “Going for a walk,” he mumbled to the Slytherin before threading a hand through his hair and slipping outside.

Not many people usually remained at Hogwarts during the holidays. John had spotted a few Ravenclaws playing chess earlier that morning in the Great Hall and a pair of Slytherins strolling through the Hieroglyphic Hall. And yet, with fewer students to muffle its veins, Hogwarts felt livelier and more magical.

On Tuesday, on their way to the Astronomy tower for a lesson with Teddy, Sherlock stopped short. A Hufflepuff girl sat against a wall with schoolbooks surrounding her and a scruffy, ginger cat in her lap. “Molly Hooper,” he hummed, clasping his hands behind his back and swooping down to position his face closer to her’s.

“Molly-who?” John asked blankly, lips over pronouncing the ‘who’.

“Hi Sherlock,” she managed as she blinked back some exhaustion. Once Molly had nudged the cat off her lap, she stood up. Sherlock’s hawk-like watch moved with her.

He frowned and cocked an eyebrow. John had to hold back a laugh at this—he rarely saw Sherlock act to a student (he only did it to professors so as to slip out of trouble). “Whenever are you not studying?”

“When I sleep,” she said faintly. Molly pursed her lips.

“Herbology and Alchemy, I see.”

“Yes.”

Molly's trembling fingers thumbed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Is this—?" she stammered.

"Yep."

"…Oh."

John clenched his jaw and sternly eyed the Slytherin. "Sherlock, what is going on—"

"Molly Hooper, Hufflepuff third year," he interrupted.

"How do you know her?" John asked. Sherlock rarely made friends, especially without his guidance. John was lucky Sherlock even befriended a teacher to some extent.

Sherlock's lips twitched back into his half smile, his smirk itching at his skin as he spoke, "Met her accidentally when you weren't...hmm...present. She helped me, mind you. "

"So last year?" John confirmed. He crossed his arms.

"Mmm."

"Right," he said, "good."

Molly smiled with small lips and said, "It's nice to finally meet you, John. I've heard many things over the past few months." Molly paused, stared at John for a moment, and then stuttered out, "Oh, sorry. All good things. He never…It…it was just always advice. He just asked me what he s…should do…and—"

"Molly,” Sherlock said.

She stopped, glared down at her shoelaces, and sighed. Sherlock's baritone was rough, but it wasn't harsh. John noted that it definitely had lowered since the previous year. He must have not caught it. 

"Sorry," she mumbled before looking up again.

John nodded curtly and said, "Nice to meet you too, Molly." He followed Sherlock down the corridor.

Wednesday brought Christmas. In the morning they exchanged gifts in front of the fire. Gladstone was rather pleased—usually she spent the morning alone, curled up on the floor. She had company that day.

Sherlock's mood was lighter then and because of this, John was able to tug him into a snowball fight without much resistance. He'd spotted a group of Slytherins and Ravenclaws playing against each other outside and his blood rushed hot with adrenaline. Sherlock decided to side on the opposing team John chose, nevertheless his hatred of Ravenclaws. Towards the end of the fight, John noticed a huddle of Ravenclaw girls watching him from a distance. He spotted Mary, the girl who worked on History of Magic assignments with him, and flashed her a cheeky grin. She waved in return.

It took him a moment or two to notice that a snowball had been pelted at his face.

"Merlin!" he exclaimed, his body turning around instantly, “you sodding prat!"

Sherlock slid out from behind a shrub and managed a way over to John without getting shot. "You're severely blind, John. I really hope you do get that checked," he hissed.

"What?"

"Why else would she be here?" Sherlock asked in return.

"Mary? Because we're mucking up the school grounds!" John responded, arching a curious brow. His eyes were trained dedicatedly on Sherlock.

"Idiot," the Slytherin muttered. He dashed over to the other side and only was hit once on the back. Sherlock hardly flinched.

Christmas ended with a celebratory feast with Professor Lupin in his classroom.

"How'd you get him into a snowball fight?" Teddy asked after swallowing a mouthful of food. Sherlock nudged a sliver of pork around his plate anxiously.

"I haven’t the faintest,” John responded.

Sherlock continued musing with his meal silently.

"Maybe he could tell us himself," prodded Lupin. He ruffled his hair with his hand and laughed light-heartedly. Sherlock's eyes followed him as he wiped his mouth off with a napkin, rubbed his palms together nervously, and forced a cough. "Apparently not," he said.

"The night out into the Forest," Sherlock said, ignoring surprised looks from John and Teddy, "when you 'saved' us… two males wounded Fluffy. But this wasn’t our first occurrence with him. In our first year we went out into the Forbidden Forest for yew and knotgrass and Fluffy charged on us then. Although that time a figure was spotted. This time we only found a pair of footprints. It’s safe to assume that students and Fluffy are linked, but who is setting this hound on us? And why did John receive a fang from one of the heads?”

John and Professor Lupin stared blankly at Sherlock while he shot them mocking glares in return. His expression quickly washed into something gentler when shifting over to John. "Bit not good?"

"Fine, Sherlock," John said, picking up his glass and taking a sip from his pumpkin juice, "just sudden."

"I was thinking."

Teddy focused on cutting his stuffed chicken throughout all this. Sherlock, on the other hand, continued. "There's something we're missing, something latent about it all."

Lupin furrowed his brows and, with a mouthful of food, smarmily asked, "Did you want to be an Auror as a child?"

John turned to his professor and quietly corrected, "Pirate."

Apparently though it wasn't quiet enough. "Mycroft?" Sherlock muttered sharply.

"We've been in touch, yeah."

"Bullocks," Sherlock spat.

Teddy stood from his seat then and sauntered to the window. After his eyes roamed the grounds outside, he turned on his heel rapidly. "Did you get into any fights in your first year?”

"No. Only last year,” Sherlock responded casually, “John clashed with a Hufflepuff student.”

“Did he have a friend?”

“Yes. A male Slytherin.”

Teddy gnawed on his lip for a moment. “Don’t you think that’s a bit…curious?” Teddy’s expression was warm, though his eyes were trained on both third years. He had a very brotherly, protective nature to him—something Mycroft lacked.

“I’m going back to the Flat,” the Slytherin said bluntly. Sherlock pocketed his hands and swept himself out of the Defenses room.

“Flat?” Teddy asked with a raised eyebrow.

John clenched his fist and replied, “The Room of Requirement sees more of us than our dorms do.”

On the twenty-sixth of December, John Watson cozied up next to the fire in the Gryffindor common room. Sherlock was busy ramming his pale nose into books about the dark creatures while John chatted up Greg Lestrade, whose parents were off on holiday during the break. He was the only housemate that remained with John, and because the boy had been busy with Sherlock the whole week, he decided it’d be best to spend some time with the sapphire-haired Gryffindor.

Speaking of his hair, Sherlock had offered months ago to charm it back to its normal shade, but Lestrade shrugged the offer off with a smug, “The ladies love it."

And that was that.

“So,” Lestrade said from the couch, “how is he?”

John shifted in his armchair. The one at the Flat was far more comfortable—with its scruffy fabric and worn-in cushions. He didn’t make any comment that he’d rather be burrowed in the other one to Greg, for his Gryffindor friends still didn’t know of their use of the Room of Requirement. John instead licked his lips and said, “Sherlock? He’s good, yeah. I’ve been getting him to eat more. Needs some flesh to run around in.” John paused and flashed his friend a bright smile.

Lestrade couldn’t possibly want to talk about Sherlock right now. He hadn’t had a good chat with him for months. Of course they had spoken throughout their third year, but it was never of any meaning. Always mindless blabber of sorts. And yet, once they had the chance to sit down and talk wholeheartedly, Greg decided to bring up Sherlock. And it was odd. “Why the question?”

“Just thinkin’,” the other Gryffindor responded. His palm rested behind his head with his other hand lay on his chest. “Now that you two got back together you’re never around, that’s all.”

“We’ve been busy,” John replied. And that was true. Once they’d settled their argument last year, John was glued to the Slytherin. Whether it was dashing through the Forest, lurking around the castle corridors past curfew, or going to classes, John was always at Sherlock’s side. He wasn’t too ashamed to admit that to anyone or himself. When he was younger, at Muggle school, he didn’t have too many close friends. Having Sherlock there next to him, throughout everything, was a reassurance. John had never had a friend who valued his presence as much as he valued theirs.

Sherlock was simply…intriguing. He was never boring or dull. And while knowing that an unexciting life would eventually be the end of him, befriending Sherlock back in first year was one of the most beneficial things John had done.

Greg eyed his friend for a moment before adding, “It’s not that we’re mad or anything. Just more fun when you’re hanging around with us.”

John’s forefinger drew absentminded circles onto the side of his mug. He’d taken the tea from breakfast in the Great Hall that morning. There weren’t many students at Hogwarts over the break, a few Ravenclaws, a handful of Hufflepuff girls, and only a scatter of Slytherins. Other than Lestrade and John, one Gryffindor remained at the castle over the break. The rest of John’s housemates went home.

John parted his lips for a moment before changing the subject. “Our first match is in two weeks,” he stated.

“Yeah. I hope Weasley signs up for practice next week or we’re done for,” Greg chuckled.

Greg flashed John a charming smile, but the blond only scrunched up his nose and replied, “Well, I know of one Chaser who feels confident enough without any more practice.”

“Sod it, Watson. You’re full of bullocks, aren’t you? Slytherin’s team is good this year. Have you seen their Seeker?”

“Galloway lost them two matches last year. But Blye Erikson has done well in practices, hasn’t she?” John tallied.

Lestrade scoffed, sat up, and said, “You better hope Louis gets us working like the house elves…or else Slytherin might have a chance at House Cup.”

“I put in a good word to have you practicing the hardest. We need a strong Keeper to bounce off of.”

•••

"How was your holiday?" asked Albus. He was seated to the right of Lestrade, who was sitting opposite of John. Sherlock sneered at this. He always seemed to when one of John’s housemates made a mindless comment or attempted small talk. The Gryffindor dug his wand into the Slytherin's lower thigh under the table to shut him up. Fortunately, it worked.

They were settled in the Great Hall the first day classes resumed. Sherlock had a tendency to sit with John on these dreary moments at the Gryffindor table. Occasionally, John would join him with the Slytherins, but Sherlock received fewer sideways glances at John’s table than John did at Sherlock’s. The boy with the malicious hair and wild eyes was a common sight to the Gryffindors. And above all that, the Gryffindors were a warming family that tended to accept Sherlock into their home without more than a handful of complaints.

“It was good, yeah. We were very busy here,” John replied while he threaded a hand through his sandy hair.

Albus’s brow shot up into the air at this and head cocked to the side. “No homework and you were busier?”

“Snowball fights were a daily occurrence,” said Sherlock abruptly. He peered upwards from his parchment and tea with a charismatic expression plastered about his porcelain skin. “John says Muggles have them often. They seem impractical and tedious.”

“They’re not,” chimed in Lestrade who slammed an elbow down on the table with a pointed finger jeered at the lone Slytherin. “What else are you going to do with the bloody stuff?”

“Snow?” said Sherlock as if it were a pixie on his tongue, “you leave it. It belongs on the ground.”

Greg smirked smugly, “Or in your best mate’s face.”

“Bullocks!” interrupted Albus, “It belongs off the Qudditch field.”

“Are we really going to bicker over this?” asked Sherlock.

“Apparently,” John said as he turned to eye Sherlock with a stern expression, but warm gaze, “yes.”

Suddenly, the upper windows of the Great Hall opened and owls carrying various messages and gifts flooded in and infiltrated the air. None of the students seemed to be surprised at this, for this was a mundane occurrence, but a scruffy brown owl swooped down and shucked a letter down onto John’s lap. Upon recognizing the seal, John groaned and slipped it into his robes. But Sherlock spotted it before it was out of view and muttered, "Tell him that I've run away…or better yet, that I've grown fatefully ill and died."

"I think your brother is wiser than you make him out to be," John replied before a forkful of pork. He swallowed.

"Fatter too," Sherlock said with a sigh. He fidgeted with his wand, twirling the slice of pine between his fingers. The spinning made John nauseous. 

"Who's that from?" asked Greg. With his knuckle, Greg nudged his plate away from him and crossed his arms. He leaned back.

Sherlock's nose twitched as he said, "His mum. We need to go study. Now."

John gulped and stood from the table. He caught a concerned glance from Greg and couldn't help but to feel bad. Knowing that discussing Mycroft with Sherlock would come to be inevitable, he threw in, "I'll meet you at practice. Drag Potter and Stamford along—we could use the enthusiasm."

"Will do," responded Lestrade as both John and Sherlock rushed out of the Great Hall.

•••

Once concealed away in the warmth and purple walls of the Flat, John tossed the letter on Sherlock's bed with a flick of the wrist. "Hurry up. We don't have a huge amount of time until Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid will have a Figglehorn if we're late again. Let's not stop to observe a quarrel between Nearly-Headless Nick and Peeves today. Okay?"

Sherlock let a large sigh out chapped lips and mumbled a barely audible, "Bugger." It was to himself, but John managed to catch half of it. "Just open the sodding letter, will you?" he finally said, louder this time.

John tore through the paper of the envelope with one finger and held the parchment firmly in each hand. He read. "Dear John H. Watson. I would like to inform you that my parents will not allow Sherlock home for the summer. I will be returning to the Manor during that time and will not have my own property. If he may, Sherlock must stay with you during this time. We cannot deal with any more quarrels at home. In addition, time has come for a Holmes family reunion. He must not be present for this.

"Please make sure Sherlock is visiting all of his classes and is not skipping meals. It's not recommended for his mind. He tends to be rather vulgar without food or sleep, if you have yet to notice.

"Signed Mycroft Holmes."

John tossed the letter back onto the mattress and walked structurally over to the Slytherin. He sat down in his armchair. Sherlock paced around the Flat instead.

Mycroft had always played the mother role to Sherlock. He'd always kept Sherlock in line when their parents were too busy teaching at the nearby school. Mycroft was the one to play pirates with him, the one that knew when the dog needed to be fed, the one who was the most blank-faced, arrogant, Ministry-hogging, sentimental arse. And Sherlock was related to him.

Although Sherlock was very often agitated with Mycroft's infatuation with power, it was the fact that Mycroft (no matter the lack of expression) cared for him which dug into Sherlock's skin. Mycroft wasn't supposed to care. It seemed to run in the family.

Mycroft had started Sherlock on the deductions when he was six. While out running errands for Mum, Mycroft would point out a man's pale ring of skin around his wedding finger or the fact that a woman's blouse had a button undone on the sleeve. "She had them recently rolled up, but lacked the time to button the other sleeve. She's a hard worker. Do you see her hair? It's cropped short because she doesn't want to fuss with it for too long in the morning. She's a single mother of one toddler."

Sherlock would furrow his brows and tug on Mycroft's sleeve as he asked, "How'd you know about the kid?"

"There's some dirt on her right ankle," Mycroft explained, crouching down so he could see more of his younger brother's face and added, "isn't that interesting? You can know anything about someone if you know the right places to look."

"That's neat," six-year-old Sherlock cooed. His teal eyes were pulled wide as he looked up at his brother.

It was when Sherlock was seven and a half when his deductions came more freely. Deducing someone was like some foreign language that only he and Mycroft knew about. The only issue was that Sherlock was getting better than Mycroft at his own sport, the sport Mycroft taught Sherlock all about. "I'm smarter than you," Sherlock would banter.

"Don't be. I'm the smart one," Mycroft would spit back.

This brought on an age of fighting between the two Holmes brothers. Sherlock, in order to retain a leadership role of the relationship, needed to be better than his brother. Mycroft tugged competition out of Sherlock with a firm grasp. The fact that Sherlock owed everything he knew to Mycroft made his skin itch with irritation.

Owing Mycroft his skill made the Slytherin allergic to favors.

"Listen, Sherlock, I would send a letter to my mum and dad, but it wouldn't do anything. They think you're perfect. You can stay with me over the summer," John said while balancing his chin on his fist.

Sherlock hummed his response, "Tell Mycroft to sod off. I'm doing fine, mind him." While he was speaking, Gladstone crawled onto his lap. She had grown fairly large since they had rescued her from Mycroft’s firm reign.

John sighed. He stared at Sherlock blankly. "He's right, you know," John commented.

"Hmm?" Sherlock responded half-mindedly. He was busy petting Gladstone.

"About eating and classes and all that. It's for the good of you, Sherlock. And I can't help but to agree."

"Oh, Merlin. You're turning into one of them," Sherlock threw his head back with disgust and rammed it against the back of the chair. He bit the inside of his mouth to stifle the pain.

"Who exactly are they?" asked John who gave the Slytherin a surly look once he was finished with his pain induced grimacing.

"You, Fatcroft, Molly, George, Teddy..." Sherlock rambled.

"Greg?"

"Blue hair?"

"Yeah. Greg."

"Doesn't matter."

"It's his bloody name, for Merlin's sake. It does matter. But back to the subject: we want the best for you and for you to be safe from yourself and the world around you," said John calmly. He stood and shuffled to the fire. Januarys were always cold at Hogwarts.

"So you don't trust me, then?" spat Sherlock, whose only restraint from severely harming John at that point was a sharp-toothed Bombay sitting in his lap.

"No, you git, that's not what I said! Hell, you're a drama queen," John shouted as he turned on his heel rapidly to face Sherlock. The Slytherin's expression was mock-offended while John jabbed a finger at him and said, "Quit twisting my words, you squib."

"I have full magical capacity, John. I'm not a squib."

"You know what I mean," John said, louder this time.

Sherlock steepled his palms but didn't add to the conversation any more. Doing so would only add to John's temper.

"We're going to be late for Creatures. Tell Gladstone she needs to find somewhere else to sleep."

"Like your Charms essay," Sherlock mumbled before ridding of the cat and following John outside the Room of Requirement.


	12. Year Three IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has his first Quidditch match, Molly has some answers Sherlock's been looking for, and something underlying is changing.

John's neck itched, but he didn't dare scratch it. He clung to the Quaffle with damp fingertips and pushed his broom to soar faster than the Slytherin opponents that were on his tail. He was close to the goal baskets now, closer than any of the other Gryffindor Chasers. Scorpius Malfoy sneered at him as John dashed closer. Louis had warned them in practice the week prior about Scorpius's placement as Keeper. His father would have been a World Cup worthy seeker if it wasn't for Harry Potter. Scorpius had the chance to go further than his father could have.

As he veered in front of the goal baskets, Malfoy a spitting five meters away, John eyed each ring. He'd seen these baskets hundreds upon hundreds of times in practice, but now with his entire house relying on him to score, he gulped.

Because Lestrade was on the other end of the field protecting Gryffindor's goal baskets, only Albus Potter and Mike Stamford were on the stands cheering him on. John didn't have that much time the morning before to see if Sherlock would be there and, as he walked onto the field just minutes before, the wild-eyed Slytherin wasn't with John's housemates. A short, blond girl took his place…and she wasn't wearing a Gryffindor scarf. It was Mary from History of Magic and she had grinned at him once he spotted her earlier on.

Either Sherlock was huddled in the mess of emerald scarfs or wasn't present at all. John didn't have time to decide which was correct because Scorpius spat on his broom.

"You goin' to shoot there, Loverboy?" the Slytherin hissed. His lips twitched up into an ungodly smirk.

John's mouth pulled upwards into a grin. Not only did he spit on Sherlock's broom, but he called John a name other than his birth given one. Save for a flamboyant grunt, John didn't respond. As Scorpius struggled to corner John, the Gryffindor burnt past him and lobbed the sweat-slickened Quaffle into a ring and earned his house a savory ten points.

The smug look on Malfoy's face wavered. "Mudblood," he sneered, but John had to pretend it didn't hurt, because the other Gryffindor chasers had caught up now and they were slapping John on the back encouragingly.

From the stands, the students cloaked in red and gold sang proudly, "Go, go, Gryffindor!"

John chuckled and flew back to the other side of the field. The score was now ten to nothing and Gryffindor was in the lead.

John let the other Chasers take the Quaffle from the Slytherin team this time. Their lead Chaser, Jason Galloway, was ill and wasn't living up to his (already low) expectations, but John hovered near the rings anyway. He was going to be there when his team called for him, even if he was letting them take the next ten points. John wasn't in the mood to test his luck.

Once his fellow teammates had earned Gryffindor an extra twenty points, John stepped back in. Just as Galloway was about to score the Slytherin team's first set of points, John zipped in and managed to legally snatch the Quaffle away from him midair and dash to the other end of the field. He lobbed it over to another Gryffindor Chaser, flew closer to the goal basket, and caught the Quaffle incredibly. With almost no effort, John hit the Quaffle into the right goal post with the end of his broomstick as Malfoy wedged up to his position.

His head almost started pounding from all the cheering.

John's name was a familiar chant that night among the Gryffindors. "Wat-son! Wat-son! Wat-son!" they sang together once the initial shock wore down. He caught Lestrade's glance as he flew near the stands and gave his friend a cheerful wink.

The Quidditch match continued successfully. By the time the Seekers were nearing the Snitch, Gryffindor was already ahead of Slytherin by fifty points. It was then, when John was aiming for another ten points, when Malfoy grew foul.

Scorpius gripped onto John's shoulder tightly. "We're not going to lose because of you, Loverboy. Blye's going to catch the Snitch. You're going down," he spat into John's ear. And with that, Malfoy snatched the ball from John's grasp and flung it to Galloway who scored easily.

John had to suppress his anger. He knew Scorpius fed on it. He managed to get ahold of the Quaffle again and when he veered up towards Scorpius's grimace, he couldn't help but to grin and chuckle.

"Slick there, Malfoy. Very smart," he said matter-of-factly with the ball tucked under his right arm. He managed to steer with his left.

Scorpius only narrowed his eyes and sneered before replying, "I'd love to see you try and do better, Watson."

Just as John's effortlessly thrown Quaffle entered the basket Malfoy wasn't guarding, the announcer yelled, "Gryffindor catches the Snitch! Gryffindor takes the game!"

"Better luck next time," John said to Scorpius with a proud smile before he flew to the opposite side of the field to join with his team.

The stands sang with cheer, "Go, go, Gryffindor!"

•••

Sherlock was in the Great Hall during John's first Quidditch match. It was quiet without the bumbling, noisy students running a muck through the room. For the most part he was alone, but near the end of the match (or so he concluded) Teddy Lupin sauntered in through the teacher's entrance. "How did I know you'd be in here," he said with pride as he made his way over to the third year.

"You didn't," remarked Sherlock, "you made your way here for some reason or another, spotted me, and walked over. You weren't far away—your pupils dilate. Don't fool me Teddy."

"No need to get 'al serious," interrupted Teddy. He sat down across from the Slytherin and eyed the books in front of him. "Animagi?" he asked questioningly.

"McGonagall assigned reading on it. Haven't anything better to be doing."

Teddy's lips pressed into a line. Sherlock didn't realize the precautions to what he had said. He'd blown off John's first Quidditch match to study—something he rarely ever did.

"Do you like it?" Teddy asked, but Sherlock didn't have the time to answer. John rounded the corner with sweat trickling off his face in sloppy tendrils and his broomstick in hand. His expression was alight with a gleeful, humorous grin and once he had stepped into full sight of both his best friend and professor, he thrusted his fist up into the air with his broom a cried, "We won! Gryffindor won!"

Teddy was the first to say anything. He stood from the table, fiery hair stumbling into his sight, and began clapping. Sherlock couldn't help but to wonder if Teddy had used his powers to change his hair color as child, but the thought diminished quickly. He smiled back at John, who like a patient crup waiting for its master, was standing with his broom waiting for Sherlock's approval. Once Sherlock flashed a grin back, John's eyes couldn't help but to radiate all the warmth and happiness surging through him. His gaping grin skittered across thin lips.

Sherlock stood and watched him with hawk eyes and an undulating smile. "Congratulations, John," he said. His hands were clasped behind his back. John always did do better while stressed.

The Gryffindor watched the Slytherin and licked his lips. "I earned our team sixty points!" he said happily, a smile still residing on his mouth.

Sherlock watched John for a moment. His face was slightly tanned from all the Quidditch practice he'd been having recently. John's hair was a sandy, damp mess in front of his eyes. Blue eyes, to be exact. His head was tilted partially to one side.

As Sherlock studied him, a light, glittery wave washed through his lungs. His limbs grew light and his skin itched with a frosty chill. He was seeing John differently now. Not as a best friend, but something else...something he didn't deduce. Numbness was threading his veins. He didn't like being incorrect.

Sherlock parted his lips to speak, except Professor Lupin took his chance.

"You should head up to the Gryffindor dorms, John. Go have fun—it's your night."

Sherlock could only offered small smile as he darted through the corridors of his mind.

•••

After Sherlock finished his chat with Professor Lupin, he sucked in a hearty breath and exited the Great Hall.

Hogwarts was conflicted that day. Both the Gryffindors and Slytherins were missing from the chalky halls, but aside from their absence, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs threaded life throughout the grounds. Sherlock grimaced and continued his way to the stairs. The walk to the seventh floor was sure to seem longer today.

He glared at his shoes as he sauntered. Sherlock knew he shouldn't feel hurt that John's housemates got to see him now, but he couldn't help it when the thought wormed itself into his head. He grunted and bit the inside of his mouth. It wasn't worth it.

As he trudged up the stairs, Sherlock eyed the Whomping Willow thrashing about in the early spring wind. His lips twitched into a sly smirk. The Whomping Willow was fascinating...and something seemed peculiar about it.

Sherlock made it to the fifth floor and walked through a corridor. Not many people were here. Most Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws seemed to be running about on the lower floors. Except for Molly Hooper, who was walking his way with a scruffy orange cat trailing behind her. He wished Gladstone were there to scare the bloody thing off.

"Hello, Sherlock," she said with a small smile, "John was great today. Wasn't he?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and slipped his wand into his back pocket. "I wasn't there. Wouldn't know," he responded abruptly.

"He has told you about it, right?"

Sherlock nodded. He never seemed to be in the mood to talk to Molly, but then again he was never in the mood to talk to anyone except John. But John was off busy with his housemates…too busy for Sherlock.

After dragging a palm down the side of his face, Sherlock said, "Would you like to go see Mrs. Hudson with me? I've been meaning to go see her. Said she had something down there for me. Ingredients for an experiment, most likely, but nevertheless…"

Molly fumbled with words. It looked as if she was about to decline his offer, but she pursed her lips and said, "Sure. That'd be nice...Yeah."

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and turned. He didn't quite know what brought on this question and why he'd asked Molly. Possibly because he was on the verge of relapsing as of the previous year or just because she never had poked fun at him yet.

"Do you have an owl?" Molly asked kindly as she fidgeted with her usual ponytail. He watched her curiously. Sherlock could never quite understand why she continued to wear her house colors even on the weekend. There was no need—John only sometimes wore red. Sherlock himself never wore green.

"I have a cat. Mycroft's actually."

"Mycroft?"

"My brother. He works for the Ministry now."

"Was he the funny Slytherin with the large appetite?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

Sherlock's eyes were trained in front of him as he walked. "My family consists of Slytherins and Slytherins only. Salzar's in our blood," he commented while they downed the stairs.

"But you're not biased or anything about houses and blood anymore, right? After the Second Wizarding War?" Molly asked. She glanced behind her to check if her Persian was following properly, which he was.

"I'm not, no. Can't say the same about my parents." Sherlock furrowed his brows. He hadn't really thought about his parents since Mycroft's letter. Somehow, being disowned by his family gave him something to smile about. He would be living with the Watsons over the summer. With John.

"What happened with them?" Molly asked.

Sherlock sucked in a large breath before speaking. "Can you recall the fight I had with John last year? It was because I had received letters from my parents instructing me to stay away from him because of his blood status. I deduced that these letters were forged, but upon further notice they weren't. When I came home for the summer my mother realized I was still in contact with him. From there, I packed up my things and took off to John's. I won't be returning over the summer."

Molly disposed of her current pleasant expression to something much more frightening. She looked incredibly uncomfortable. "That's-that's horrible," she managed, stopping in her tracks. A small, sympathetic sigh slipped from her lips before she pressed them into a line. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock…But didn't you say something about them being forged?"

"The ink, penmanship, and parchment weren't correct—yes."

They rounded the corner. Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes made their way through the Stone Circle and began the trail down the hill to Mrs. Hudson's. He hadn't been down to her hut since earlier that year. It'd be nice to see her again.

"Perhaps they're under the Imperius curse?" Molly suggested.

Sherlock peered at her behind furrowed brows. "Most wizards don't like talking about them. And you do?"

"My mum is a Spell Registrator. She works with them for a living and all. I mean, you said the letters were forged but your parents acted the way the imitator impersonated them to. Isn't that a bit…odd?"

By this time both the Hufflepuff and the Slytherin had reached the Gamekeeper's hut. "I suppose so," Sherlock mumbled under his breath as he knocked on the old door.

They waited for a moment and then knocked once more. Mrs. Hudson came shortly. He elderly face seemed to be reborn with exclamation as she noticed who was at the door. "Sherlock, dear, won't you come in!"

•••

Sherlock ran his fingers over the edges of three hundred and sixty-one books. Each of these were restricted from general student use for some reason or another, but Sherlock figured that because he was smart enough to find a way into the restricted section, he should be permitted use of at least one book of his choice.

As his fingertips glided over the spines, his eyes trailed the titles, searching desperately for one on the unforgiveable curses. He was fairly certain that Molly, with her scruffy hair and faint eyes, was onto something earlier that day. For all his life, his mother and father treated both him and Mycroft with nothing but kindness and support. They also weren't ones to bow down to prejudice of blood and status. If anything, Sherlock's parents were the humblest parents he could name—aside from John's, of course.

John.

Sherlock's stomach turned. The last time he was in the library, utterly shielded by his personal brew of the invisibility potion, was when he was still fighting with John the year before.

His fingers dropped from the books and his grip on his wand tightened. Sherlock didn't have much energy left that night to feel deprived without John at his side, helping him hunt for books. Sure, he felt hollow without John next to him, but he knew he'd see him the next morning. And then they'd run around the school discussing what Sherlock had deduced about his parents. And when dusk came they'd be so exhausted that they'd fall asleep together while reading a book about the unforgiveable curses on John's bed. One night without his best friend wouldn't kill him, would it?

It wasn't the same as the previous year—he and John were still friends, still hungry for each other's ridiculous comments about the professors and their chortles to follow, still yearning for each other's presence and witty remarks. They weren't fighting now. Everything was in its place.

Sherlock sighed and continued rummaging around quietly for books. It took him only a few more moments until he spotted Unforgiveable Curses and Unfortunate Endings adjacent to a book about sustaining life off unicorn blood. He smiled to himself and flickered off his wand. He wouldn't need Lumos anymore.

As he stepped outside, Sherlock eyed the corridors. Hogwarts was fairly enamoring without the students to fuss with it. It was an entirely different castle at night and because of this he didn't want to go to the Flat just yet. His potion was still working well and he didn't feel any bit tired. With a flick of his cloak, Sherlock turned left and headed upstairs to the Astronomy Tower.

He wasn't going to the Astronomy Tower to appreciate the stars. In fact, he would steer away from that tower if it weren't empty, but it had a decent amount of candles and nooks to curl up in. Hopefully Gladstone would realize he wouldn't be back for a while and slip out of the Room of Requirement to come and join him.

After alighting the room with a handful of vertebrate candles, Sherlock tucked himself next to the stairs and dove into his book. He didn't emerge from his study until he read the words from cover to cover. The sun was peaking above the Black Lake now, his potion had worn off, and a built, scruffy blond student loomed overhead him.

"Late night?" John asked.

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed as he blinked some fatigue away from his lashes. Since he didn't fall asleep at all that night, his body felt as if it bore a hundred wars. John smiled sympathetically at this and with a quick motion, seated himself beside his scraggily Slytherin friend.

After glancing at Sherlock's choice of reading material, John asked reluctantly, "Unforgiveable curses?"

Sherlock snuffed in a breath and then bleakly replied, "My parents are under the Imperius curse and the two students who released Fluffy on us and attacked you did it."

John's mouth dropped open for a hurried moment.

"Wh-what?" he managed?

"Those two students are in the center of everything that has happened to us these past three years, John," said Sherlock with a tone to his voice similar to ones the professors used for teaching, although it wasn't scornful or chiding. He was very careful with the way he presented this information to John because it was still fragile in his own mind. He'd been working on this case for months now.

"Do you remember the train ride here this year, John?" he asked in a moderately mellow voice, "I was bored, but not in the way that you get bored. I'm not the only one at Hogwarts who gets bored like that, whose brain constantly needs to be drumming through puzzles and problems and errors in order to function correctly. In our first year here, we spotted a student out in the forest, which was quite an odd sight. Not many students venture out into the Forest in their first week at Hogwarts—aside from us, that is. After he spotted us, Fluffy charged and we didn't see the hound again until this year. The person in the forest that night has choreographed everything, John…from the very beginning. He released Fluffy on us under a basic controlling charm, grew stronger and placed my parents under the Imperius curse, and then came back to school this year and released the hound on us again."

"Where are you going with this?" asked John.

"The person orchestrating this also sent you Fluffy's fang as a reminder on Christmas last year. He was there when you and Sebastian fought and, with Sebastian's help, chased us through the halls of Hogwarts just after we'd finished our first lesson with Teddy. He has something against us, John. But what?"

John stared at him for a while. Sherlock knew then that he's wasn't the only one in the room attempting to soak in everything he had just said. Once he processed it all, John asked, "Who did this?"

"Other than Sebastian Moran?" replied Sherlock, "A male Slytherin. Name is unknown at this point."

John bit his lip and then replied, "I think I know who it is."

Sherlock's mind flipped. It was uncanny for John to deduce something before he did. Although John was picking up a few of Sherlock's habits, the Slytherin didn't expect him to become an expert at deduction in a mere three years. "Do you?" Sherlock replied reluctantly as he turned a bit to face John. The morning sun was glistening in his eyes, but it was still a bit chilly.

John nodded once. "It's Scorpius Malfoy. He said some pretty foul things at me during yesterday's game. It has to be him," he said proudly.

Sherlock had to bite his tongue just so John wouldn't hear his groan.

"Scorpius Malfoy is blond," scoffed Sherlock. His eyes were pulled into a taught line as they peered down at John like he had offended him, which at this point he had.

"So?"

"The Slytherin with Sebastian has dark hair and dark eyes. I know his face, but not his name. Rather easy, I'd say. But our next step after learning more about my housemate is to remove the Imperius Curse from both my parents and the three-headed hound," replied Sherlock. He dove his hand into his muddy swirls and brushed them away from his eyesight.

"Fluffy's under it too?" replied John, shocked.

"Obviously. Why else had he harmed it that night and that night only? He had a gash in on of his necks, if you recall correctly. They must have had a hard time finding him and set up a trap or the sorts."

John sighed and fumbled with his wand in his lap. He still looked at it like an honor, even three years after he'd been told he had magic in his flesh. Sherlock couldn't help but to wonder what it was like to grow up thinking you were a Muggle and then realizing that you had power within you. No wonder why he was gazing down at his wand endearingly.

"You said your parents would let me stay with you over the summer, right?" Sherlock clarified. It had been awhile since they last talked about this and he presumed he must have deleted part of that conversation.

"Yeah. They'd be happy to have you." John smiled his John Watson smile at Sherlock and then glanced outside at the sunrise.

They didn't talk for a while. Both third years simply watched Hogwarts receive its morning dose of shimmering radiance for a while. The only things to be heard were their steady breaths before Sherlock said, "Once we're let out for the summer, I need to stop at the Ministry. We could get a room at the Leaky Cauldron for a few nights. Mycroft will send some Galleons for us to use. We can make it fun, if you'd like. Go out and explore the Wizarding world. Have you ever been to Fortescue's? Please tell me you have. My father used to take Mycroft and I—that is, when I still had the appetite."

John threaded his hands through his scruffy blond hair and replied, "Sure…let's do that. What's the Fortescue's?"

"Oh, John," sighed Sherlock with an excellent grin painted on his lips, "there's so much I need to catch you up on."


	13. Interlude I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock visit Mycroft at the Ministry and stay the night at the Leaky Cauldron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor note that it's the late hours of Harry Potter's birthday...so there's that.

"Mother and Father are under the Imperius curse."

Sherlock's voice seemed to echo in Mycroft's office. The older Holmes, with his white shirt and off-white pinstripes, stuck out like a sore kneazle. Earthly tones licked at the walls. A large portrait of a man whom Sherlock didn't recognize loomed over his brother's head with sickly tints. Then again, now that he was working for the Ministry, Sherlock didn't recognize Mycroft either.

Mycroft sucked in a deep breath and brought his fingers up to his temple. "And why do we think that?"

Sherlock watched his brother with large, eager eyes. The younger Holmes was standing in front of the elder's desk—taking complete and absolute charge of the situation presented to him. "Did Mother...or Father, for that matter—ever make comments about blood status and Muggles before my second year of schooling?" the Slytherin asked.

"Not particularly, no."

Sherlock slipped his hand into his overcoat's pockets and extracted two thick letters. "They sent me these. With precautions," he said. Sherlock slid them over to Mycroft and seated himself in one of the two dark chairs.

Mycroft's nose twitched as he picked up the envelopes. With a quick glance, he slid them back to Sherlock. "Mother doesn't use this ink, nor parchment," he said snootily.

Sherlock only responded, "Don't act like I'm not smart."

"I'm the smart one—"

"Just read the bleeding letters, will you?" Sherlock interrupted hastily. He didn't slide the envelops back to his brother. Mycroft could do that on his own.

Eventually, the older Holmes slipped the parchment out of their casing and skimmed them quickly. "Mother doesn't sign to us as Mummy," he reported, "and the script is incorrect. She writes with her right hand, not her left."

Sherlock only heaved in a breath. "So the person who forged the letters is left-handed? I presumed they were at Hogwarts seeing as the letters mention you keeping an eye on me. Because you were not involved, someone there must have seen me still befriending John." He pulled out another letter. One from Mycroft himself. Sherlock handed that one to his brother as well. "You told John here that I wasn't allowed to return to the Manor. You did write this, correct?" Sherlock asked. He fiddled with his wand as he spoke, twirling it around a multitude of fingers. Mycroft only nodded reluctantly. "You've spoken to them. You've heard them discuss how they don't want me returning. Wasn't it out of character for them?"

Mycroft didn't respond. He only sighed and fumbled with the letters.

"Who's the smart one now, dear brother?" Sherlock snorted flamboyantly. 

Mycroft didn't give in to Sherlock's tedious banter.

"They seemed a bit ill, yes, but nothing out of the ordinary. I only thought you had given them trouble and they wanted to frighten you a bit. I didn't think that they had actually wanted to disown you. That would just be...ghastly." 

"Is there any testing for the Imperius Curse? Can we see if they're under it?"

"I'll see whatever may be possible through. Mother and father were just as important to me as they were to you. Whether we care to admit to ourselves or not," Mycroft said reassuringly and his flipped through a stack of papers.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as he narrowed his sight. "Why use past tense?"

Mycroft pressed his lips into a line and looked downwards at his brother. Mycroft had always had a hawk-like spirit to him, but it was in times like these that Sherlock saw it most prominently. His forehead creased with stress lines and he took a deep breath. "The only removal of an Imperius curse which I know of is to kill whomever placed it upon them, Sherlock. If you are certain that they're prompted by it, I'm sure we can start an investigation."

After he had recollected the letters, Sherlock stepped out of his brother's office and spotted John waiting in a chair near the secretary. John had told his parents that he wouldn't be returning home for a few days. He and Sherlock left Hogwarts for the summer on the Express and then booked a room at the Leaky Cauldron for a few nights to talk to Mycroft and do a few more Wizarding errands. "Come along, John," Sherlock said hastily as he slipped out of the waiting area.

•••

Sherlock had promised John he’d take him to Diagon Alley so as to spend some galleons Mycroft had given him. Although John had been to Diagon Alley three times before to purchase school supplies and whatnot, all the small shops still amazed him. Then again, many things about the Wizarding World seemed to still astonish John.

Sherlock dragged John to the Quality Quidditch Shop for an end-of-the-year gift. He appeared to be in a particularly good mood that afternoon and John wasn’t in the mood to spoil it.

“Quidditch?” John said questioningly as he was nudged through the doorway. The shop smelled of fresh leather and wood as he scanned the room. Thick pillars of mahogany towered up ahead and a cool blast of air sputtered at his cheeks as the door slammed shut behind Sherlock. Quidditch equipment was placed decoratively this place and that—gold broomstick handles glistened to his left, a shiny new Quaffle flickered towards his right. Near the ceiling, an enchanted Snitch zipped around. The reflected light from it bounced around the petite shop.

Sherlock chuckled next to him. “Just a bit,” he replied lightly, beginning to maze around other customers and display stands.

John’s face blossomed with a sloppy grin and his eyes glistened with a childlike spark. He walked around the store almost drunkenly. After some time of examining gloves and broomstick extensions to goggles and various Bludgers, John felt a voice slither somewhere near his ear. “It’s good for long rides. Not necessarily Quidditch, but flying related, I suppose,” Sherlock hummed while he pressed a broom compass into John’s palm. From behind his back, he presented John with a Chudley Cannon’s shirt. “Remind me to take you to a Quidditch World Cup sometime. It’s not really my area, but you’d enjoy it,” he added with a smile.

John’s eyes roamed the shirt. He’d heard about Chudley Cannon’s once or twice from Lestrade and Albus. Supposedly, they were a very well known Quidditch team throughout all of Europe. “Why are you doing this?” he asked reluctantly. It wasn’t like Sherlock to be generous with gift giving and the likings. While he wasn’t ungrateful, he was incredibly curious. It was as if Sherlock had downed a potion to make him pleasurable. Perhaps he had.

“What else am I to do with my brother’s money? I still have some saved from last year. It’s not like I’ll run out any time soon, and if I do, I have access of my family’s vault down at Gringotts,” Sherlock said with a flamboyant edge as he slipped his hands into his pockets.

“Please,” he added, “if it makes you feel any better, consider it a gift from Mycroft on accordance of your excellent playing.”

John’s grin stretched from ear to ear as he walked up to the clerk and said, “I’ll take ‘em.”

Outside, Sherlock led John to Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor. After quickly savoring his caramel treat out on the stairs beside Sherlock, they slipped into Slug and Jigglers Apothecary shop for potion ingredients.

A repugnant smell sifted its way to John’s nose as they stepped inside. This store was much more fitted towards Sherlock—with its dark, wooden walls and numerous bottles with green and red liquors in them—John felt as if Sherlock could stay here for days. “You don’t mind if I experiment at your house, do you? Because if you’d rather I not, I’ll change my list. Can’t bring something that’s going to spoil to your house with intentions of using it at school,” he mumbled. Sherlock mused himself with a closed vial which contained some sort of dark fluid in it.

As John responded, Sherlock fiddled with a bundle of unicorn tail hair. “I’m sure we can figure something out, yeah. Get what you need,” he said.

Once Sherlock was finished examining Doxy eggs and dragon liver, he brought an armful of supplies to the clerk and paid. Sherlock left with a swish of his coat. John hurried to catch up.

Back at their room in the Leaky Cauldron, Sherlock and John piled their new purchases onto the bed.

“We cleaned up, didn’t we?” John commented.

“Hmm?” Sherlock was already busy with his baggage from school. John could tell by the way he was slumped over that he wanted to use his wand, which was tucked snugly behind his ear, but he wasn’t allowed. It was summer now and the use of it was illegal. Sherlock’s fingers fumbled with some of his belongings before finding a book pertaining to the unforgiveable curses. He pressed the book against his thigh, turned around, and asked, “What was it you were saying?”

John’s gaze of Sherlock quickly stirred to the corner of the room where Gladstone had hissed suddenly. She was in the midst of pouncing on Hadar. The Eurasian Eagle owl tittered and ruffled his feathers. They weren’t fighting, he noticed as Hadar hovered above the cat with steadily flapping wings, but playing. The Gryffindor smiled to himself.

“Nothing, really,” he finally responded, threading a hand through his sandy hair and then added, “You’re still reading that?”

“Rereading,” Sherlock corrected, “for the sixth time.”

John pursed his lips. “Didn’t you steal that from the Restricted section?” he asked sternly.

“I’ll return it when I’m finished with it, mind you.”

Sherlock sauntered over to the bed and flopped on it. He cracked the book open and began reading. “And yet you say I’m sentimental,” John mumbled to himself as he crouched near his owl and Sherlock’s cat.

“Speak up next time if you plan on insulting me,” Sherlock droned from behind his book.

John turned his head, “Pardon?”

“You called me sentimental. What for?”

“Rereading the book. To save your parents, nonetheless, but you would have called me sentimental for doing so if the brooms had been turned.”

“Merlin. I’m sorry if trying to lift an Imperius curse from the two people that gave life to me is so insulting to you,” Sherlock grumbled. He placed the book on his chest and shot John an unattractive look.

“I’m not saying it’s bad, Sherlock. I actually admire how much you’re putting into it. I know it’s going to take a lot. Just pointing out your hypocrisy.”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

•••

Later that evening, John and Sherlock seated themselves in the large dining room. Only a few people were at the Leaky Cauldron that night. Sherlock sat across from John at the end of the large table and fiddled with his wand as John ate a healthy portion of roast hog.

“You going to have any?” John asked through a mouthful. Gladstone was seated on the Gryffindor’s lap and darted her head up as he spoke.

“No,” Sherlock responded curtly, his eyes meeting John’s for a brief moment before he settled them back down at his wand. He sipped at his tea.

“You should. You haven’t eaten all day,” John responded after having swallowed his food and wiped his mouth. “Don’t make me go back to your brother to shout at you for it,” he added as his fingers brushed through the cat’s fur.

“That’s exactly why I’m not,” Sherlock responded hastily.

“Seeing your brother made you not want to become as large as him?”

Sherlock couldn’t hold back a small chuckle. He looked down at his lap, pressed his lips into a firm line, and sucked in a breath. Although what John had said was very realistic when it came to Mycroft, it wasn’t the case. Hearing about how to lift the Imperius curse did. Sherlock didn’t like to eat anyway, but learning how to remove the spell made his stomach twist. He’d reread the book on the unforgivable curses so many times because he was searching for the procedure to remove it, but the book had left it out. Going to Mycroft was the first time he’d heard of eradicating the Imperius curse in such ways.

John hadn’t even seemed to understand why Sherlock had bought him so many things. He thought Sherlock was in some type of mood—he didn’t…or couldn’t, that is…understand that he was all Sherlock had left, other than his own brother (whom he never really connected with). John was his family now. Until his parents were free of their chains, John was all he had left. And Sherlock couldn’t imagine what it’d be like without him. Again.

“Sad to say, but no,” Sherlock replied, glancing up at the shaggy-haired Gryffindor. A smile cracked through his lips, “Although it has happened before.”

“Seriously?” John grinned behind his drink. After a big gulp, he said, “You really should. It would do you good, a decent meal.”

“You don’t understand,” Sherlock replied through a quiet tone, “You didn’t hear what Mycroft had to say. You weren’t in there.” Sherlock’s mouth quivered. He did not quite have the urge to scream, but something was bubbling in his throat. He didn’t know exactly what it was—frustration, maybe—but he knew he didn’t like it. He reached for his tea, took a long drag, and looked back up at John before saying, “Mycroft told me how to remove the curse.”

John stopped eating and placed his hands around the cat as his to seem easy to talk to. Knowing John cared did make it easier, Sherlock noticed. “And how is that?” John asked reluctantly. He frowned a bit as he eyed the Slytherin.

“In order to properly remove an Imperius curse,” Sherlock explained, fingers steepled in front of his lips as he leaned on the table, “One must kill the caster. Either I have to kill someone or my parents stay like this…dead to anyone except the person who is controlling them.”

John’s lips parted as if he was about to say something, but he sat silently with Gladstone. She took this chance of muteness to meow loudly. John shushed her as an elderly witch glanced their way. “Bloody cat,” he mumbled as he fidgeted with her fur. Eventually, though, John glanced up at Sherlock and said, “Look, I’m with you. Whatever the Azkaban you need to do, I’ll be here. Good?”

“Thank you,” he said. Although he was never keen on showing any amount of sentiment and weakness, with John everything was okay. He could say something and John wouldn’t discriminate him for it. Along with that and the fact that they’d discussed it briefly in their room, it was easier showing his concern over his parents then rather than earlier that day.

Eventually, John persuaded Sherlock enough to order a small cup of pea soup. Although he only ate about one half of it, Sherlock noticed a bright grin on John’s face. With that, Sherlock would eat any amount of food just to see John smile.

•••

As John lay about on their bed later that night, Sherlock’s violin hummed with warmth as he plucked softly at the strings. His hands seemed to always work without too much effort to move them. It was as if they were magic themselves. “I need to know who it is,” he eventually said, fingertips still threading life into his instrument as he turned away from the small window nook and faced John. John was positioned on his stomach with the cat stretched out on the length of his back. Since he lacked the ability to turn to face his friend, Sherlock slowly made his was over to John’s head. He sent Hadar a scornful look as he paced past him, as the bird was perched on the foot of the bed.

“Know who is what?” John muffled droningly into his sleeve. He lifted his head up and eyed Sherlock for a moment and then lazily dropped it back into his arms again.

“Who put my parents under the Imperius curse,” Sherlock said with a final nerve of chords. He sliced the air with his bow dramatically. “And who also cursed Fluffy, chased us around the school, and befriended Sebastian Moran.”

John sighed. “Not now. Please, don’t do this to me. It’s already midnight. It was a long day, Sherlock. A long day.”

Sherlock huffed and eyed John confusedly as he propped himself up onto his palms while balancing Gladstone on his back. He blinked rapidly, cringed, made an unpleasant face, and said, “Merlin, I need sleep. Right. Go for it.”

“I’ve scanned through all possible Slytherins with the exact hair color, height, and stature as Moran’s buddy. I just can’t come up with one.”

“Why don’t you simply investigate Moran. Follow him and all when we get back to school?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and looked down at his bare feet—something he did only when he was thinking or looking at John. Both were the case this instance. “It’s is a possibility,” responded.

John squinted at Sherlock and then stretched his eyebrows. “Can we continue this tomorrow? Everyone’s tired but you,” he said softly.

Sherlock glanced around their small room and noticed how Hadar had already tucked in his feathers for the night and how Gladstone was curled up in sleep on John’s back. Just seeing them made his eyelids droop.

“C’mon,” John said, shifting so Gladstone was napping on the mattress rather than his back. He pulled down the covers on Sherlock’s side and slid into his own. “Let’s go. Get in bed. You need the sleep.”

“What for?” Sherlock said with a flamboyant raise of the eyebrows.

John only shot him an unresponsive look and readjusted his pillows.

Sherlock groaned loudly and paced to the single chair in the room to place down his violin. He collapsed into the bed unwillingly and faced away, oblivious of the changing thoughts to come the next day.


	14. Interlude II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up to find that he and John are in a _compromising_ position. They then return to John's house for the summer.

When Sherlock woke, John Watson’s cold nose was smudged into his shirt’s neckline. His legs were a tangled mess with Sherlock’s and his breaths stumbled against Sherlock’s collarbone in a stable pattern. As for his arms, John’s palm was mushed firmly into Sherlock’s back. His other had somehow managed to burry itself in Sherlock’s hair. There was no getting out. Sherlock simply had to wait until John woke.

His eyes darted to the small clock at their shared bedside table. The time was fairly late to have slept in for, but knowing John, he could wake up within the hours of seven and twelve. It all depended on what he was dreaming about.

Mornings weren’t Sherlock’s favorite occurrence. They were dry and full of boredom. So, as a game to wake up his mind, Sherlock took to blindly deducing what John had dreamt about that previous night as he stepped out of bed. The thing with John was that he always dreamt, no matter the circumstances. He also had a rare tendency to retain the majority of the content of such dreams for double the standards of the average person. His moods frequently varied as he woke, though once his eyes had indolently spotted Sherlock, a small smile itched onto the skin of his lips and pulled at their corners.

As John’s head tucked underneath Sherlock’s chin, he couldn’t help but to have fumbled through a matter of two distinct thoughts over and over and over again.

One: John was no longer snoring, which meant he was most likely dreaming especially because he had hit an end of a sleeping cycle. What was he dreaming of?

Two: The way John pressed up against every inch of Sherlock’s body felt marvelous, but guilt slickened his veins with a coarse thread. As Sherlock robbed the sensation of John so close to him and packed it away in his memory, he tightened his own grasp on the Gryffindor. But the word felt like a ghost in his own mind.

Friend. A person attached to another with feelings of affection or of personal regard, typically exclusive of sexual or family relations.

Sherlock knew the definition. He also knew how friends acted with one another and the difference among families, lovers, and mates. But when compressed tightly with John Watson, none of those titles seemed to match the way he felt. Not correctly, at least.

John was the closest thing Sherlock had to a family aside from Mycroft. He was a brother formed by trust, rather than blood (Sherlock had always believed relationships such as these were much more sturdier than forced relationships—even when his family wasn’t under someone’s watch). John was family. But his traits didn’t end there.

John was also a friend. He had found Sherlock in that lonesome, dark train carriage and prodded out a conversation. John had beaten up Sebastian Moran for calling Sherlock a freak. Sometimes, Sherlock wondered hard why John wasn’t put into the Hufflepuff house. He was so loyal that sometimes it punctured through Sherlock’s skin with an icy blade.

Something in the back of Sherlock’s mind told him that John’s qualities continued, but there was only one category left.

Sherlock swallowed hard. The guilt trickled down to his toes. Somewhere, deep inside of him he had come to a conclusion. He had been wrong. Sherlock Holmes had been wrong.

Wrong about the way he saw things.

A friend wouldn’t capture the moment of another friends pressed tightly against them. A brother wouldn’t feel guilty about such things.

He bit down on his tongue.

Sherlock had thought John as something else all along.

He peeled himself out of John’s sleepy embrace, no longer concerned if John would wake up or not. Fortunately, he didn’t and Sherlock crawled out of bed. But his actions weren’t stealthy enough, for his ankle twisted in the sheets and he tumbled out of bed, his tailbone ramming into the hardwood flooring when he hit the ground.

"Sherlock?" John said groggily, rubbing his palms into his eyes to strip away some of the slumber. He leaned over the edge of the bed where Sherlock was regaining himself. "What the bloody hell happened?"

Sherlock looked up at him with an unamused expression. He wore this expression more than his school uniform. And most times, such as this one, it was forced. "I fell," he said dryly.

"As you slept?"

"I do it now and again, John. Do pay attention."

"You don't do it when you sleep in the Flat!"

Sherlock bit the inside of his mouth. He was aiming on drawing blood, but John eyed him for a response. "Bad dream," he mumbled.

"I'm not buying it," muttered John, who placed his head down on Sherlock's pillow.

"You don’t have to." Sherlock pushed himself off the ground and slammed the pillow down on John's ear. The Gryffindor groaned and attempted to hit Sherlock back, but the pillow landed weakly at the Slytherin’s feet. John frowned and pulled the blankets up around his shoulders.

While John attempted to go back to sleep, Sherlock snatched a clean shirt (and his toothbrush) and headed to the bathroom attached to the room.

If he really thought of John with the regards of a more in-depth relationship, how would he handle it? Would he tell John or conceal his thoughts? And if he did tell him, what would John do?

Most likely, John would smile. John smiled at everything. If someone made a joke, he smiled. If someone insulted him, he smiled (and then tackled them). John smiled no matter if he was embarrassed of confident.

It was settled: If Sherlock told him, John would smile. His thoughts behind it were unpredictable.

Did John have the capability to see him differently?

Sherlock clenched his toothbrush tighter as he scratched it around his teeth. If this was to go on and if Sherlock was to hold this knowledge in his brain, what would it do to him? Simply lying to John about their friendship almost risked his own life before. Would he end up the same way with this?

Sherlock spit into the sink and decided that he would investigate later.

•••

They left the Leaky Cauldron in the morning, after Sherlock had devoured enough time to meander around their small room and ramble about the indecency of potions. Once he had that out of his system and their cases were packed, they headed off to the Muggle world.

London was a grey city. It’s weather was grey, it’s buildings were grey, and most of the people came off as grey—boring, uneventful people, which Sherlock threw himself at deducing as they walked through the outskirts of the city to catch another train.

“She has fur trailed up her ankles—so two dogs, not one. And by the looks of how she irons her shirt they’re cairn terriers.”

“Merlin,” John sputtered out, his grasp of Hadar’s cage tightening as they turned the corner.

It only took an hour or two to manage their way through the city on the journey to the Watson’s. By the time they arrived the sun had decided to peek out. Mrs. Watson greeted both boys with a warm smile reserved only for mothers. “Didn’t have any trouble getting here, did we?” she asked, moving away from the door so the two students could tumble in.

“None at all, Mum.”

Once Mrs. Watson had taken Sherlock and John’s cases from them, she smiled, crinkled her eyes, and said, “Dinner will be ready in an hour. Go get settled, then.” She flickered her eyesight to the Slytherin in a very Mrs. Hudson-like way. “It’s nice to see you, dear. Feel right at home.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Watson,” he replied before taking the stairs by two.

•••

They spent the entirety of summer in four select places, those four places being John’s house, a library near about three blocks away, a small diner neighboring the library, and a creek by the Holmes manor.

The creek was not close enough to Sherlock’s home for his family to spot him and John wallowing in the depths of the silvery liquor, but it was close enough for Sherlock to feel home again—this time in an entirely different sense.

His family no longer lived at that house. Instead, they all had scruffy blond hair and had a tendency to gather around the telly for far too long.

He had been adopted in some sort of not legal, non-magical way by the Watson’s…or at least fostered by them until his parents could come back to reality.

Sherlock was sitting at the base of a wiry tree that split like a ‘Y’ in the middle while John amused himself by splashing around in the shallows of the creek. In his hand, John grasped tightly onto his wand while his eyes feverishly darted around the water. Although he knew he couldn’t perform any magic legally—it was summer and he was out of school—John continued to keep ahold of his wand. Sherlock always had his wand in near reach in the summer, too, but wasn’t as clingy to it as John was. Sherlock supposed this was because John was a Muggleborn and still valued his power.

“It’s not even that cold, Sherlock!” John called as he reached down to roll up the hem of his jeans a bit further. They were becoming damper and damper by the minute with his thrashing in the water, but he rolled them up an extra inch nevertheless. John did petty things like that.

Sherlock smiled.

“No thanks,” he called back loudly, “it’s all yours. I’m not in the mood.”

As the large grin began to drift off his face with the current, Sherlock glanced at his book and tried to remember where he had left off.

John’s voice hid behind the gurgling of the water. “Wha—look! There’s a fish!” he sort of breathed, a large, beaming smile tacked loosely onto his lips.

Sherlock’s eyes didn’t even move off the page as he coyly responded, “Yes, John. That’s where they live…in the water.” His own expression behind the words reminded him of Mycroft when he was younger.

Sherlock shuddered. He was too close to his past.

“Yeah, but look! It’s got these scales that change colors and do this shimmering thing. Really quite fascinating, I’d say.”

The Slytherin saw through his friend’s persuasion easily, but nonetheless placed down his book in the brittle grass and stepped into the water with a defiant huff. “It’s a Fulsis. They do that to throw off attackers,” Sherlock hummed upon further investigation. He was standing over John’s right shoulder, his hands deep in his khaki pockets as his chin tipped up a bit.

John turned around then, his face entirely alit with a youthful radiance and caught Sherlock’s gaze. He studied him, as Sherlock would do himself. “What are you going to do about Seb’s friend?”

“He’ll come to me,” Sherlock said abruptly.

John’s eyebrows did the thing they did when he was confused but didn’t want to admit it.

“He wants to be noticed, John,” Sherlock said, eyes still locked on John’s as he took a generous step back, “he wants credit for all his work and he knows I’ll give it to him. If I don’t go and seek him out, he’ll come to me. He strives for the same things I do and when he doesn’t get them he’ll grow mad.

“In all, I merely have to sit back and watch. He’ll put on the show.”

John kicked at the water with his heel. “You sure?” he asked, his eyes peering back up to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Positive.” He turned away and headed towards the tree, but something felt odd on his back—something wet. When he turned around to see what it was he only noticed John’s suppressed grin. A large scoff trickled off Sherlock’s flesh.

It was all he needed.

With that, the pompous Slytherin dashed into the water and steered himself directly at John. The Gryffindor was soon soaked from high waist down to his ankles.

John did nothing in defense, though. He only stood there and took his punishment like the true Gryffindor he was.

“Bloody awful, you are,” Sherlock sneered. He glanced up from John’s sopping jeans to his face, which was sheathed in a thin mist of the water. His dirty blond hair was falling into his crinkled eyes. Something twisted in Sherlock’s stomach.

Perhaps he was right about the shift in thinking.

To hide his ineptness, Sherlock dove into the creek and managed to clasp onto John’s ankles and pull him under the surface.

John was changing him.

Sherlock rarely ever was irresponsible or simply did normal, naïve things. It wasn’t in his nature to.

His stomach flopped as John trapped him on the leaf-covered bottom of the creek by standing on his back. He could hear him shouting something above the water’s surface but it was muffled by the time it got to him. Sherlock pressed his palms into the mud and pushed himself up. John’s wet feet slipped off his back in the process and he went tumbling in. By the time Sherlock was wheezing for air, John was already back at his legs, trying to pull down the Slytherin and have him lose his balance, which fortunately worked after a good, long minute in attempt (although Sherlock had given in and pretended to detach his poise).

They continued to fool around in the creek for another hour or so—John jumping on Sherlock the second he looked away, Sherlock swimming against the small current to prove something to himself—and when they made their way back to their broomsticks they had to waddle because their wet clothes felt foreign against their skin. Sherlock glanced back at the Holmes manor through the trees and then pressed off the ground, the wind taking to the water droplets on his skin and making them run cold.


	15. Year Four I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are back at Hogwarts for their fourth year and John can't help to have his eyes on a certain Ravenclaw. Professor Lupin teaches his class how to fight off boggarts, mayhem ensues.

There was a bubbling excitement buried way down deep in John’s toes. No matter how many times he’d stepped off the train and feasted his eyes upon Hogwarts it was always as charming and exhilarating as it was the first.

“You’re eager,” said Sherlock quietly. He was sitting in the back of the carriage with John. It was a bumpy ride.

John cocked an eyebrow and presented Sherlock with his iconic you-caught-me-off-guard expression. Sherlock chuckled.

“Hmm?”

“Your pupils are dilated and your knee constantly bobs. Don’t be stupid—I know you still feel the same way you did when we first saw it,” explained Sherlock as he locked his gaze somewhere up the dark passageway. “…And I saw you almost trip on that first year when you first got out of the train just looking at it.”

“Bloody hell,” John muttered instantly. “You saw that?”

Sherlock simply tried to hold back a laugh, which John caught and redistributed himself. Laughter sounded odd so close to the Forbidden Forest.

•••

On the way back from a night collecting ingredients on the outskirts of the Forest (and in places they’d decided Fluffy wouldn’t be), the night sky caught John’s attention more than Sherlock’s words did. John’s chin tipped up, his fingers buried deep in his jacket pockets, and his eyes calmly flowed from one bright star to another.

Sherlock studied John the way John studied the stars.

“Did you know one of Jupiter’s moons is named Europa? It’s covered in ice,” John hummed contently, the large, blue planets in his eyes swirling their way over to where Sherlock walked beside him. The Gryffindor’s head remained in place.

Sherlock’s brow rose at this, but he didn’t add to the conversation. They’d gone over Jupiter’s moons the one Astronomy class he’d been to within the last several weeks. Surely John was using a tactful way to catch him up on the studies he’d missed.

“But lo’s the one that’s got the volcanoes. Funny how two things so close could be so different.”

John’s eyes slid back up to the sky and danced around the bright, lonesome dots, but Sherlock’s remained in place—carefully pinned onto John’s nose, the curve of his lips as he spoke softly, how the moon danced across his features and splashed its essence on them without too much notice.

John continued talking about Jupiter and its moons—about Ganymede and diameter and this great red spot that also was a storming mess—and though Sherlock was in taking everything the Gryffindor went on about, he was also breathing in John himself.

The ground crunched underneath his oxfords. It hadn’t been muddy that evening, but rather frigidly cool. A very earthly, metallic scent drifted around the grounds. It sang the song of upcoming fall, the subtle tickle of aroma snuffing about the inside of Sherlock’s nose and making him sneeze once or twice or three times, at most. The moon hung low, currently carved into a very hollow form. The night had grown hungry and taken a large bite of it when no eyes had wondered up there.

But John’s eyes were up there now. They hadn’t moved in a long while.

Only did they move when John had to focus back on his footwork and overgrown roots jutting out of the grass like long arms. They were back up in the sky the minute he’d found his placement.

When they entered the castle and John was finally forced to stop gawking at the sky, they took their steps carefully and quietly—one wrong move and they were caught. Though, in all their four years at Hogwarts, they had never once been seen lurking through the halls past hours.

After a few turns, John and Sherlock went their different ways, one up a few more flights of moving staircases to the Gryffindor tower, the other down to the Slytherin dungeons.

Sherlock’s shoes tapped silently along the cobblestone floor. The air was cooler down on the lower floors and he only had a few turns left.

He was only mildly startled when a large, shaggy haired wolf rounded the corner he was nearing up on. Those familiar emerald eyes gazed up at him while the wolf paused in its walking. It was a very recognizable looking wolf.

“Up late again, Professor?” Sherlock whispered, a slight smile creeping up on a portion of his chapped lips.

The wolf took a step closer to the Slytherin and nudged its shoulder against the side of his knee. It continued walking.

Sherlock eventually made it to the Slytherin common room and crept into his dorm, the sack of ingredients on his shoulder heavy with lovage, nettle, and sneezewort.

•••

The final day of September brought one thing—a letter from Mycroft delivered by his puffy, brown owl. It had come at lunch—a lunch Sherlock had decided to skip. John had lugged it up to the Flat and presented it to Sherlock with both a frowned curve of the lips and his Divination assignment.

“Firenze assigned ten inches of the scroll about a dream log. Who in Merlin’s name wants to record their dreams?” he said with an irritated tone gurgling out his mouth alongside his words. He tossed both the letter and the assignment down on Sherlock’s lap before throwing himself into his own armchair. “’Suppose you would know this if you actually bothered to show up to your classes.”

“I don’t really wish to see you drool over the Ravenclaw. No wonder why I skip that one,” Sherlock hummed, his eyes never moving from the envelope as he dug his finger underneath and tore open the seal. “It’s not my favorite sight, to be honest,” he added.

Sherlock’s fingers flattened out the letter against the arm of the chair as John made some disapproving noise. He would never know the true extent of what Sherlock had just said.

 

Sherlock,

 

I’ve made a trip back to the manor. Mother and Father, as you suspected, were not how they usually were.

 

I’ve researched the Imperius Curse extensively since your departure (as have you, I presume) and have not found a removal of the curse but of death; whether it is theirs or the caster’s.

The only option we have to make is to seek out who may have casted it.

I’ll be stopping down for a day or so during Christmas break. Please take care of yourself until then.

Mycroft

Also, John, he likes buttered toast with jam. Doubted he’s mentioned that since you’ve met him.

Sherlock did not show any emotional signs upon reading the letter. He did not snort, nor toss the parchment into the fire. Rather, he placed it back into its envelope, stood from his chair, and dropped the correspondence on the table near John. He walked to the window.

From behind him, papers slid past one another. John settled down into his seat, the loud groan echoing in the hollow room.

The Black Lake outside grew dark and it’s outline slipped into the ground as John read and the day drew to a close.

“So it seems like the spell could be removed if the caster is found,” John eventually said after he had cleared his throat. A soft pad hit the coffee table again as the papers were placed back down. Sherlock watched him through his reflection in the window. “You said yourself that whoever it is will come to us,” he added, “We needn’t worry.”

Sherlock threaded his tongue across his bottom lip and then pressed his mouth into a line. He continued watching John as John sighed heavily and raised his eyebrows.

“I still did something to have this person curse my parents. Why not Albus’s? His parents are fairly popular. They’re known. Mine are just in a long line of descendants. Mine are boring. Nothing worth cursing over.”

“Weren’t you the one that said whoever had written the letters was out to get you? Trying to mess with your head?”

Sherlock only nodded.

“This isn’t about your parents—it’s about you.”

“Why would this be about me?” asked Sherlock. The words rolled off his tongue in a spitting manner, as if they had offended him past a point of return. If only his words could tumble out the glass and disappear into the night air.

John cracked his knuckles, turned up the fire with his wand, and said, “That’s something we need to figure out.” One of his eyebrows rose. “It’s the first step.”

•••

Mary Morstan was a petite girl with blonde hair and bright, round eyes. She smiled frequently, held the highest grade in History of Magic, and preferred jelly slugs to sugar quills. John learned this last bit as he eavesdropped in class while she talked to a frizzy-haired girl by the name of Donovan, who was the Keeper for Ravenclaw team.

“I have nothing against Honey Dukes, it’s just that sugar quills aren’t my favorite,” she explained, her silky, shoulder-length locks falling into her eyes. Mary tucked them behind her ear with her fingertips.

“I don’t know how you do it, Morstan,” Donovan replied light-heartedly.

John leaned back in his chair and pretended to listen to Professor Binns’ dull lecture. Today, they suffered an hour and a half's droning on the subject of giant wars—but it wasn’t the class that was putting tight knots into his neck or making his chest feel heavier than any other day. Sherlock held responsibility for that. Though he didn’t mind reassuring the Slytherin that his parents wouldn’t be stuck under the Imperius Curse forever, having to listen to his constant whining for the entirety of a night where all John wanted was to do some flying around the Quidditch pitch did leave him feeling a bit restless in the morning. Plus, Sherlock had kept him up into the early hours of the next day discussing possible casters of the curse, hung over the back of the couch, slurring his words to John who was sleepily grazing his fingers through Gladstone’s fur on his bed.

“Is there anything wrong with not fancying them, Sally?” whispered Mary back. John studied her as she scribbled something useless into her black, leather-clad notebook with her quill. Her ink seeped purple liquor into her parchment, her lazy, mid-class doodles staining the paper with thick drops. She had a tendency to tuck her bottom lip into her mouth as she focused on things and crinkle her eyes when she glanced back up to smile at Donovan. It was gorgeous, really, the way she moved…the small things.

John concealed his mouth with the back of his hand and quietly called over to her. “Mary,” he said, his eyes wavering back and forth from the ghost droning on at the front of the room and the Ravenclaw’s eyes and her smudged eyeliner. “You do know that Honeydukes makes these sort of peppermint quills, right? I’ve never had one myself, but I’ve heard they’re great…reliable sources have told me, of course.”

Mary squinted over at him and then smiled warmly. She held one finger in the air and got busy carving into her parchment with her quill. When she was finished, she dropped the crumpled ball of paper on the ground and kicked it over in John’s direction.

 

Really? I’ve never seen them on the shelves. Perhaps they’re kept in the back? x

John glanced over at her before responding, his own chunky scribble looking misplaced next to hers.

 

I actually don’t know. Never been to Hogsmeade myself. JW

He kicked it back over to her. She snatched it, ignored Donovan’s prodding at it, and wrote underneath his answer. She nudged it back to John.

 

Why’s that? Won’t your parents sign? x

John knew why he hadn’t gone. Because Sherlock’s parents had been quite rude, he hadn’t been able to get a proper signature to go on the trip. John had agreed to only go with him awhile back. The thought hadn’t really even crossed him to go without Sherlock until now.

Even he needed a break sometimes.

 

I’ve never asked. Would you like to go next trip with me? We could try to find the peppermint quills. JW

After John had pushed the ball of parchment back over to Mary, she turned to him and nodded. It was a small, sweet nod. “That sounds great.”

•••

"This here's a boggart," Teddy Lupin explained as he paced around a large, grimy chest. Many looks of confusion spread about the faces of the students, but Sherlock remained stoic.

"But boggarts take the form of whatever you fear the most," Albus Potter said from the back of the crowd, "Are you afraid of chests, Teddy?"

Teddy turned to glance at the chest behind him and turned back to Albus, "That’s correct, Sev, but no. It's in the chest. Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces. I don't think I'd be a good Defense professor if I'm afraid of chests, now would I?"

"Probably not."

Teddy smiled. “So, we know boggarts take the shape of whatever one fears the most, but what exactly are they?”

A scruffy haired Slytherin put up his hand.

“It’s a shape shifter,” he said.

“Couldn’t have put it better myself. Who knows what a boggart’s true form is?”

This particular question stumped the class. Well, the majority of the class. A sluggish hand rose up amidst the heads of students. “Yes, Mr. Holmes?” Teddy said with a smirk.

“No one knows, obviously. Every time someone encounters a boggart, it takes the form of what that individual person fears most. It’s impossible to see its true form unless one lacks fears.”

“Correct!” Lupin said. “The charm that repels a boggart is quite simple, actually. The only difficulty is that you must think of what you fear most and imagine it in a comical way before saying it. Boggarts really hate laughter. That’s what really finishes them.”

“Without wands first, please. After me…Riddikulus!”

“Riddikulus,” said the class together.

“Perfect,” said Professor Lupin. “Now I need you all to take a moment and think of the thing that frightens you most and imagine how you might force it to look funny.”

The room silenced. What did Sherlock fear most?

His immediate thought was of the shadowy figure in the forest controlling his parents, but then a terrible, twisted image leeched into his head…

A body, discarded motionless on the ground—John’s body, to be exact. On his scalp itched a deep wound. Blood poured out of such wound and from his chest came a treacherous, gaping hole. His fingers, clasped loosely around his wand, were cold and stiff, his hair was coated in crusted dirt, and his face was frozen in one, churning expression: Melancholy.

Sherlock’s chest was on the verge of explosion. Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous Fireworks splattered his insides. They didn’t quit until Teddy Lupin said, “Everyone ready?”

The classed nodded. Sherlock was about to be sick.

“I’ll be first up. Follow my lead,” he said.

With a swish of his wand, the chest opened and a spurring mess came out. There was a noise like a whip crack. Fenrir Greyback loomed in front of the students and snarled through a set of sharp, yellow teeth. His beady eyes bore unto Teddy's frame and he lunged at the professor, but Lupin's hand shot up. With a stern tone to his voice, he shouted, "Riddikulus!"

Fenrir's sticky, matted fur sprouted to a pink tint and a skirt unfolded around his waist. The werewolf glanced down in embarrassment. The class cheered.

"First up!" Teddy called merrily.

Greg Lestrade took a flamboyant step up and gripped his wand tight. Fenrir rounded on him and there was another crack. Where pink and fluffy Fenrir once stood was a soundless man with red eyes. Sherlock noticed this was Voldemort, with his lucid skin and intensely lean limbs looking misplaced against the warm colors of the classroom. Greg stood quivering for a long moment, his eyes wearily watching as the Dark Lord slithered his way towards him. At the last moment, just as the elder wand caressed the skin on his neck, Greg gulped and barely managed, "R-Riddikulus."

The dark lord stumbled back. His pale skin seemed to bubble. Quickly, noses adorned his flesh. All over him seemed to be noses. There wasn’t an end.

"Great, Greg, great," Teddy encouraged, switching on an old enchanted record. "Next!"

A Gryffindor girl with scruffy, red hair stepped up. Another crack cried from the boggart. Where Voldemort's unfortunate body had been was a large, slimy snake. Its tongue spat out at her and, without a flinch, she said, "Riddikulus!"

"Next!" Professor Lupin called loudly over the music.

Albus Severus Potter stepped up to the chest. His wand was extended in front of him.

Crack! The coiled up toy snake turned and weaved itself into two people. Harry Potter stood in front of the dark lord as the final battle played before him. Except this time Harry wasn't succeeding—Voldemort was. As his father fell limp before him, Albus shouted "Riddikulus!" and took a step back. Voldemort’s wand turned into something like jelly. His spell danced around the room, now purposeless.

"Nice work, Sev," Lupin smiled as he slapped Albus on the back.

"Next up!"

A few more students took their steps to face the boggart, but Sherlock stayed back. John prodded Sherlock in the side with his wand. "You going?" he asked with a small twitch of the lips. He looked up at Sherlock.

It only took John saying this for panic to wash through Sherlock's coarse, hollow bones. The fireworks sprayed the inside of his chest again. John in the jaws of a three-headed beast was enough for one lifetime. Seeing his best friend dead, no matter if it was only just an illusion, was something he never wanted to endure. The slight thought of it clogged his throat with worry and curled his fingers twice.

Apparently, Sherlock was staring off into the distance because John stepped in front of him and said, "Sherlock? You okay?"

He blinked rapidly. A shadowy dementor hovered in the distance. "No," he said roughly, fumbling in his pocket for something to appear distracted.

"Watson!" Teddy called, the dementor now a black balloon whizzing around the room, "Let's go!"

John stepped up towards the front of the class. His wand was gripped tightly in his left hand and his fingers quirked. The little black balloon popped in front of the chest and its rubber remains whirled into itself so fast that within a single heartbeat Fluffy, the three-headed dog, towered over the hoard of students.

Teddy Lupin looked at Sherlock with an expression filled with sympathy and grief.

Aside from a large gulp traveling down the length of his neck, John appeared unaffected by the beast…That is, until the unsettling, familiar creature shot off a growl through the room. John nearly dropped his wand at this.

"You weren't put in Gryffindor for nothing!" Greg cried from the opposite side of the classroom. Sherlock wondered what Lestrade thought upon seeing this creature, but he was interrupted with his thinking.

John stared at the beast with wide eyes and a heavy haze gurgling through his throat. If he were to continue standing there any longer, the hound would consume him. John opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

"Riddikulus, John. You've gotten away from Fluffy before," Sherlock said quietly near John's ear. He moved back to his spot.

Apparently a few words from Sherlock were all John needed. He clenched his fist, raised his wand, and said, "Riddikulus."

The three headed beast ready to pounce dropped into a small heap. A startled, brown puppy unearthed from its spot. The class hooted.

Teddy gifted John with a warm grin. "Fantastic," he said. His eyes locked with Sherlock's. He raised an eyebrow. He didn’t need to say it.

"I'd rather not," Sherlock said sternly as he stretched out his neck, "Not in the mood."

"Please, Sherlock."

The Slytherin was just about to refuse again when Teddy looked at his wrist and muttered, "That's it for today. We'll continue tomorrow." With a flick of the hand, he closed the chest and enclosed the boggart inside.

“Sherlock, a moment?” Teddy called above the chatter of the departing class. John stayed with him.

Once the class had finally left, Teddy said, "Congratulations, John. I was worried you wouldn't make it at first."

John glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock slid him a smug smile knowingly.

"Thanks."

Teddy turned to the Slytherin, pocketed his palms, and asked, "Why don't you want to do it, Sherlock? It's not a difficult spell to master."

“I know it’s not a difficult spell.”

“Then why won’t you do it?”

Sherlock sneered promptly. "I know what my largest fear is and I know that boggarts are fairly easy creatures to defeat. There's no use in me performing the spell."

Teddy bit his lip and then said, "I want you to do it. And as your teacher, I have the right to have you to do so. It was an assignment, anyway."

"And as a friend you'd still require me to do it?" asked Sherlock.

"It shows how you do under pressure. Very helpful if you wish to be returning to the Forest anytime soon."

Sherlock swallowed hard. He looked at John and then back to Teddy. "He has to leave," he said commandingly, his wand pointing at John.

"What?" John said, shocked. He took a defensive step forward. "Me? What have I done?"

"Nothing. I don't want you in here."

Teddy slowly walked over to the chest. He scrutinized his shoes and then said, “John stays. He's with you when you're in danger, why not now?"

"Because I know what I'm afraid of," Sherlock said, his words barely making their way through clenched teeth.

"I'm your friend!"

Sherlock took a deep breath. What would be the worst of John knowing what he was afraid of? With squeeze of a fist, he gripped his wand tight.

"Open the chest."

There was a loud crack once Teddy Lupin had opened the trunk. John Watson's body fell limp on the ground, his head rejected in a thick pool of blood. Just as Sherlock had imagined, John's fingers were stiffly clasped around his wand. His eyes were open too, no longer bright and full of life, full of John. Now they were cold and miserable and depleted of the usual warmth. Now they were dead. Just like John.

The Slytherin crouched over his friend's lifeless body and clutched onto John's empty, stiff hand. He bit at his lip to stifle the exclamations of denial. It was so much more real…Nothing like what was in his head. He could actually endure what was in his head, but this? Sherlock clamped his wand tight. This was the only thing Sherlock could not grasp. John dead was something that he was never supposed to see.

A wave of heat slid next to him. John's hand brushed up against his wrist and caught it in his own grasp. With wide, child-like eyes, Sherlock examined him—perfectly alive, well, and sunny as ever.

"You said it was an easy spell, Sherlock," he said quietly, his heavy exhales stirring the curls near Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock found it very hard to breathe now. "I never said seeing you dead was easy, John," he responded with a deep-set frown. John frowned back.

"Imagine it turning into an inflatable dummy and flying away," suggested John. "Think of something funny and say it. I'm right here." He clutched onto Sherlock's other wrist with this and turned him so he was facing him straight on. "I'm alive. This isn't real."

"But—"

"But nothing, Sherlock. Say the spell."

Sherlock bit his lip with the intention to make it bleed. With a jagged movement, he turned back to John Watson's corpse and pointed his wand at his friend's forehead. "Riddikulus," he whispered halfheartedly.

John's body jerked back into the chest with a large crack. Sherlock closed the trunk with an twitch of his wand. He stood up, faced Teddy, and said, "Happy now?"

The young professor didn’t respond.

Sherlock ignored the fact that John was still clutching onto his wrist as he fled the Defense Against the Dark Arts room with a scowl loosely taped to his face.


	16. Year Four II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albus, Mike, and Greg pester Sherlock about what happened after class and there is a light brought to the situation of the Imperius Curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween Yo ◕‿◕

The day after Sherlock had faced his best friend’s corpse, John sat with him in the Gryffindor common room in front of the fire. John tossed some scraps of paper into the fire as Sherlock loosely held onto a mug of tea. It was the first thing he had to drink in days—now all he had to do was convince Sherlock to eat some food and perhaps his mood would be more pleasant. 

Sherlock hadn’t spoken much that day. Although long spurts of silence were a common occurrence with him, this was different. John was certain of it.

…Because inside Sherlock’s head was John Watson’s dead body, falling endlessly onto the ground with a heavy thud.

“Sherlock,” John said abruptly.

Sherlock twitched his eyes to where John was, but otherwise didn’t move.

“I know what’s going on. You need to get out of it. Come on. Let’s go.”

John stood up, walked over to Sherlock’s armchair, removed the cup of tea from his grasp, and began to walk out of the dorm once he had placed down the drink.

Sherlock huffed some ambiguous noise and followed. John had to hide a self-satisfied smirk as he pressed open the portrait and began the journey to the Black Lake. In the nice few days of October, he and Sherlock would travel down to the edge of the lake to study for upcoming exams. It was an occasional spot for them.

The weather was decent. The air had a faint, warm breeze to it, but the overall temperature was cool enough to enjoy. The sun wasn’t out, but dozens of muted clouds dragged on overhead. The Black Lake seemed to roar at them, it’s dark, menacing waves stumbling over and creating small babbles of white water.

John wondered how something so captivating could be so treacherous.

He glanced at Sherlock and then embarrassedly looked down to the dark waters. That question seemed to follow him more than he could ever imagine.

Once situated against the base of a large oak tree, feet nearly dangling off the edge of a slight cliff that led down to the lake, John pulled out his wand.

With Sherlock, prodding him for answers was futile—simply asking him would push him into a deeper state than he already was. Instead, John pointed his wand towards the grey sky and said gallantly, “Expecto Patronum!”

From the tip of his wand rumbled an excellent, white lion.

The creature seemed to prance around the air with such promise that it seemed to indulge in its own fineries.

Without much of any movement, a shaggy wolf appeared next to the lion, now seeming small against such a large and proud creature. The wolf took it’s own time with his pace, elegantly sauntering around in the air, whilst the lion romped through unseen hurdles.

The wolf paused for a small moment. He looked about ready to pounce. And then he bundled up all his strength and bounded onto the snowy lion’s back. They were playing, it seemed, as the lion spiritedly turned around so the wolf was now perched on it’s chest. John’s lion swatted his paws gently at the dog and then a snivel of a roar emerged from its throat.

John glanced at Sherlock and both the wolf and lion disappeared.

“You’ve been working with Teddy privately,” mumbled Sherlock, his eyes squinting over John in a quick motion. The words sounded like cold water seeping from Sherlock’s tongue. It was the first time he had spoken all day.

“Looks like we both have mastered a spell recently.” John replied. “I was just about to conjure my patronus before summer break. I only needed two more lessons to get it.”

Sherlock’s eyes settled on John’s eyes. His posture was horrible, his spine all crumpled up and slouching against the base of the tree. “A true Gryffindor,” he hummed before a sigh skidded through his chapped lips. Sherlock tried to force a smile for John’s sake, which John inevitably caught, but the lies painted over his skin cracked and trickled down to his lap.

“I’m not dead. You know that, Sherlock. You shouldn’t be going over it so much if you were able to imprison the boggart,” said John. His thumb absentmindedly ambled along the side of his wand.

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “It’s not that,” he said quietly, dragging his eyes away from John.

“Then what is it?”

Sherlock swallowed and studied the horizon off in the distance. His chin titled up as those anxious eyes of his trotted along the scenery. He continued to do this as he began his response, which was, “It’s the fact that it took quite some time for me to even process that the corpse in front of me wasn’t real. My mind is the most valuable part of me, John.” John caught Sherlock stealing a glance of him, which led Sherlock to focus back on the horizon again. John did the same. “I would have been a decent Ravenclaw, I suppose, with my worshipping of the brain, but they have no application to it. All they do is store and store and store. What’s the point in remembering if you’re never going to use it? Seems trivial.

“Because I value my mind to such a great extent, when it fails me I don’t understand. And I don’t like not understanding, John. Having to accept ignorance will eventually be my death. Your corpse there was not real. I do know that now, but then? I was entirely and most utmost convinced it was you, remaining restless on the cold cobblestone for all of eternity. My mind betrayed me. For you.”

Sherlock pressed his lips into a line and with a grimace looked at John, but John was already looking at him. It was becoming a habit. “And it’s not the first time it’s done that. Somehow, my mind has yet to fully comprehend you. And that pains me.”

Sherlock looked ill—his eyes were sunken into his snowy skin and his fingers fumbled nervously in and out of their own grasp. Even his breathing was demolished—his chest crowded with three hundred and one thoughts he seemingly wouldn’t express.

There was something he wasn’t saying…something he didn’t feel John needed to know. Something was being withheld.

Sherlock took in a devastating breath and concluded, “I’m learning. And that’s all that matters at the moment.”

John only smiled at him and nudged his shoulder into the Slytherin’s.

•••

On the way back into the castle and towards the Great Hall for lunch, John steered Sherlock down a set of stairs and led him to the kitchens. A houseelf noticed them and began to shoo them away, but John crouched down and politely asked, “May I have a piece of buttered toast and jam please? My friend hasn’t eaten in days.”

The house elf paused and then nodded. He disappeared into the complexities of the kitchens and returned a moment later with a plate.

John only handed the plate to Sherlock once they were seated next to the bumbling trio of Gryffindors.

Greg was telling a story John had heard a total of four times in the last forty-eight hours with large hand movements and too much description. “It was the greatest match in all of Quidditch history, I tell ya,” he rambled, finding enough time to stab a piece of pork, shove it in his mouth, and continue talking even before he had swallowed his food.

“Greg…Greg,” John said. He pushed Lestrade with his palm against the sapphire-haired boy’s shoulder. “We get it.”

Greg only wide-eyed him as he swallowed his food with a loud, satisfactory noise that made the rest of the boys roll their eyes.

This included Sherlock.

John caught the action as the Slytherin slid the cold toast around his plate with his fork. His elbow was resting on the wood, his palm pressed flat unto his cheek, and his eyes were constantly scanning over each one of John’s friends. He wasn’t even focused on the toast (which was nearly levitating at this point).

John eyed him behind his eyelashes because his eyelids were drooped down and his chin sort of tucked in near his neck. Sherlock called it his ‘I know you can do better and you’re not’ expression. And John was using it well.

“I’m not hungry,” replied Sherlock, his eyes wide and head darting out closer to John’s.

“Yeah,” said John, “you’re right. But no, no you’re not. You may not feel hungry, but your body—your transport—is.”

Sherlock scoffed and harshly picked up the piece of toast. He took a half-hearted bite.

“That’s better. Keep going.” He nodded a bit too supportively.

“So, ah, Holmes,” croaked Greg, his pork now missing from his plate, “what did Lupin want from you yesterday after class?”

Sherlock sneered and took another bite from his toast. He looked across the Great Hall for something more interesting.

“He didn’t turn in his scroll on hinkypunks. Professor Lupin wanted to know what his reasoning was for it,” John lied. He dished another plate of pork out for Greg before he did his own. It would keep him busy.

“You sure it wasn’t ‘cause he refused the spell?” asked Albus, who was leaning across the table with a glass of pumpkin juice hovering near his lips and his feet tucked under his bum.

“I’d rather not,” mocked some Hufflepuff seated oddly next to their group, “Not in the mood.” His tone was ridiculously close to how Sherlock had said it in Defense just the other day.

“Sod off, Anderson!” barked Greg through another mouthful. He jabbed his fork in the direction of Phillip as Phillip backed away to his own table, his hands up in the air and a smirk on his breath.

“I refused the spell because I had known the time. We were already past end hour. We were running late,” spat Sherlock. He nudged the bare plate over to John with his knuckles, otherwise not mentioning the lack of toast.

John’s eyes crinkled at the side as Mike Stamford finally removed his face from behind the Daily Prophet. “Bollocks. Lupin wouldn’t dream of keeping us over.”

Sherlock locked eyes with the sweaty Gryffindor. “Fine? You want to know why I stayed? Why I didn’t perform the spell with the rest of the class?” Sherlock had leaned so far over the table he was almost breathing the same air Stamford was. “It’s because I knew what my boggart was and I didn’t want people knowing.”

“Well, what is it then?” asked Greg.

“What makes you think I’d tell you after I’ve just explained why I didn’t want people knowing?” hissed the Slytherin.

Albus flipped some of his hair out of his vision and placed down his glass. “Because you sure as Godric told Watson what it was.”

John lifted his hands in protest, but he had three of his doormates staring him down.

“Tell us, Mr. Keeper,” prodded Lestrade.

Mike added, “We won’t tell nobody.”

Sherlock sneered. “That’s nice, Mike, but maybe you should stick with a book about grammar rather than the Prophet.”

Stamford smiled to himself and shook his head. He clasped his hands on the table.

“You want me to tell you?” asked Sherlock. The group of Gryffindors nodded enthusiastically. “Fine. My boggart is a rabid cab driver that almost killed me last summer.”

“Sherlock didn’t feel like waiting until the road was clear. Almost got himself bloody killed,” John added, “of course I knew what it was.”

Lestrade stared at them, his mouth agape. Thank Merlin he didn’t have any food in it before doing so. “You’re scared of that sodding thing? Thought you’d be ‘fraid of flowers or something.”

Albus only crossed his arms across his chest and muttered, “Really?” He didn’t seem to be too impressed, either.

But John sure was.

•••

The classes were getting harder.

Not only were there additional classes, but also the coursework was so much more demanding and overbearing that John began paying Sherlock to write some of his scrolls with time. The time, of course, was spent with Sherlock working on his potions—or his experiments, as he so called them.

Sherlock promised him that the scrolls wouldn’t come out the same way as the Astronomy one he had written in first year. And for every hour he had spent on John’s coursework, John spent one with him handing him various ingredients so he could throw in a pinch here and a drop there.

He suggested that Sherlock begin preparing for his O.W.Ls like he was, but Sherlock only waved off the suggestion with that cocky wave of the hand and a roll of those ever-changing eyes. And then he settled back onto Professor Lupin’s figure at the front of the class.

In preparation of his O.W.Ls, which were coming up, sooner than he imagined John set a bulleted list for each class he’d taken throughout his Hogwarts years and wrote the major points they’d studied. He then complied a long summary of all those topics and kept the stack of parchments rolled up with a long strand of twine. Sherlock only spilled ink on the scroll twice—a new record for him.

But course participation was not the only thing John was trying to steer Sherlock towards. Not only was he struggling to get him to eat more (trips down to the kitchen were becoming so frequent that the houseelves left a plate of buttered toast with jam out every few hours or so), but John also came across the idea of bringing Sherlock to Hogsmeade with Mary.

His parents signing the slip was out of the option, so John tucked in a copy of it with a letter to Mycroft, mentioning only a quick thank-you for Sherlock’s favored meal and a sloppily scrawled message about him being the only conscious provider to sign it.

The slip returned a week later. Hadar perched on John’s shoulder after he’d dropped down the message onto John’s plate of liver. Along with the signed slip came a small piece of paper.

John,

Don’t let him do anything reckless.

Mycroft

John tucked the envelope into his robes and continued focusing on his meal. Sitting at the Slytherin table always had a different atmosphere than the Gryffindor table did.

He decided to bring up the topic to Sherlock two days later. They were walking back from Astronomy, their unrolled, graded scrolls shoved deep into their back pockets.

“So,” John said.

Sherlock continued walking (his pace always just a tad faster than John’s) and turned his head so John was in full view. “So what, John? Do be more precise.”

“Hogsmeade.”

Sherlock’s lips pursed and he looked straight ahead. One of the women in the portraits looked down at them, smiled giddily, and shook her head. They ignored her.

“What about hogsmeade?”

“Well, I’d thought you’d might want to go…at least once. So I took it upon myself to rescue your permission slip out of the rubbish bin and get it signed,” John replied. He caught Sherlock’s sideways glanced and drove his fingers into his sweat-shirt’s pocket.

“Impossible. My parents don’t want any contact with me while in this—”

“—Parent or guardian,” John interrupted, “it says you need a signature from either of the two. Mycroft was willing after subtle prodding. And of course my parents were enthusiastic to sign mine. I was wondering if you’d want to go with me. I’ve never had a butterbeer before.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. It took John a good moment to realize that the Slytherin wasn’t padding along next to me. John spun back and offered Sherlock something between a frown and a smile, but not quite leaning towards one or the other.

“I thought we decided not to go,” said Sherlock.

“If the other couldn’t. But we both can now.”

Sherlock took a step closer to John and sneered at the cobblestone floor. “You must have forged the slip. Mycroft would never sign it,” he spat, his eyebrows knitted into a thick, low line as his sight zipped around the corridor hastily.

John fumbled for the folded sqare of parchment in his pockets, but accidentally pulled out his graded Astronomy paper instead and read the contents. Professor Sinistra’s quick scribble spelled out ‘Exceeds Expectations…well done’. While John tucked back his scroll and sought after the signed slip, he asked Sherlock, “What’d you get?”

Sherlock unrolled his own scroll, glanced up at John bewildered for a short moment, and rolled back up the parchment.

“‘Dreadful’ again, I’m guessing,” John said, his fingers grazing Sherlock’s Hogsmeade form. He slipped it out from his pocket’s grasp.

“No.” A large exhale came out of Sherlock’s mouth. “I’ve gotten an ‘Outsanding’.”

Sherlock only stared silently. Then, his eyes grew large and he smiled to himself. “You…your speech on Jupiter’s moons. I remembered it. I was half asleep when I wrote the paper, but I remembered it. Apparently better than you did, I take it, by the looks of your face. ‘Exceeds Expectations’, I’m assuming?” he said.

“Yeah, yeah—that’s exactly right…but how’d you do it?”

John handed Sherlock the folded up permission slip and ran a hand through his hair.

“I suppose you made it interesting…something worth remembering.”

•••

The first time—and most certainly not his last—Sherlock received detention in his fourth year occurred on a Friday. Apparently, Scorpius Malfoy had been pestering him about his deducing habit. So, in turn, Sherlock fired a few casual hexes and Scorpius ended up in the hospital wing for a night until he stopped coughing up chocolate cauldrons.

He was stepping out of the overdone grasp of detention, eyes perfectly trained on the wall ahead of him, when he was approached.

“Heard about the cauldrons…quite the hex, apparently—though I do reckon you can do better, Sherlock.”

The voice came at him like a dark fog. The words practically sung out of lips so cold they faded into the skin tone. His eyes were dark and warm, but something inside them spoke entirely different than the tune chuckling out his mouth. His eyes whispered superior words of confidence and triumph. His mouth lagged seductively into a smirk. The way his skin curled around his lips was as if they had lived in that smirk for most hours of the night. His hair was neat, combed back and dark. He glanced down with those buoyant eyes as he took a shallow step forward. Sherlock noticed the face from his common room, for it usually hung just above a loosely knotted green tie. He licked his lips and his smirk grew to an uncontrollable manner.

“Had to congratulate the artist,” he sang again. His eyes traveled up the length of Sherlock and the flesh at the corner of his eyes crinkled.

Sherlock forged a closed-mouth smile. He tried to step away and walk back to the Flat, but he was trapped. The small student echoed in the way he stood.

He continued with his watery, slick voice. His grin had disappeared. “You know…because that’s what other artists do. I hear you’re a fan of my productions, too?”

His breath was caught in his throat. “Fluffy,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

The Slytherin smiled to himself and looked cheekily away. “Took you long enough, Sherlock…really did.” His lips curled.

“Never thought measly little Jim would be a culprit,” Sherlock said, his chin tilting up with every syllable. “Jim, the tiny boy at the back off all the classes…stuttering when his name was called. Sweaty palms, rapid blinking—it was quite the show, although I did have a feeling I wasn’t the only smart one here.”

Moriarty sneered and regarded his shoes in a despiteful manner before looking up to Sherlock. “Aren’t ordinary people adorable?”

One of Sherlock’s eyebrows twitched up as he replied casually, “Very.”

Moriarty’s voice grew plaintive and mocking. "I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock…just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out here in this school. I’m special, you see—no one ever gets to me…and no one ever will.” His lips matured proudly.

“Sebastian did,” Sherlock replied with a smirk of his own. His eyes narrowed in on Moriarty’s like lenses focusing on a target. “And I did.”

“Sebatian’s merely a prop…and an extra wand with a puppet string attached to its end. You, however, are in my way.”

“Thank you.”

“Didn’t mean that as a compliment.”

“Yes you did.”

Jim shrugged extensively. “Yeah…okay…I did. But the flirting’s over, Sherlock.” Jim’s voice slipped into that dirty velvet of a singsong it could as he strolled closer. “Daddy’s had enough now.”

“But do you ever really get enough?” Sherlock asked with a slight growl.

“No,” he responded with a forced sigh, “yet neither do you.”

“So you’re looking for entertainment?”

“I’m looking for a game, Sherlock…a great one, in fact. Perhaps the best one I’ll ever play.”

Sherlock pressed his lips into a line and took a moment to respond. “Why so…abrupt, then?”

“Came to deliver you a personal message.” Moriarty’s eyes grew bright. “It’s a friendly warning for you, my deary. Back off.”

“I suppose I get killed if I don’t?”

Jim was expressionless until the words trickled out of his mouth. He was disgusted. “Don’t be boring, Sherlock. I mean, I will kill you but I’m planning on saving that for a later time…If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you.”

Moriarty ran his eyes down Sherlock body. When he met Sherlock’s hawk-like watch again Jim’s entire body was drenched in viciousness. “I’ll burn the heart out of you.” He almost is regretful at the end of the sentence, but then he tilted his head to the side and studied Sherlock like Sherlock so often studied other people. He was calm. “Well, I’d better be off. Nice chatting with you, Sherlock. Had a brilliant time.” Moriarty turned and strode down the hall as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock scoffed at the dramatics of it all and spun in the direction of the Flat, opposite of the direction Moriarty was headed.


	17. Year Four III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hogsmeade, Jealousy, and cries for help.

“It’s like Merlin converted butterscotch into gold and transfigured it into a drink,” John moaned into another large gulp of his beverage and then set the rapidly depleting glass down on the wooden table with a loud clank!.

Sherlock was sitting with one foot propped onto his thigh and his hands folded in front of him. “Merely an aging process—like wine.” He had only taken a few sips of his own drink.

John grinned from one ear to another. “I don’t care how it’s made. It’s bloody brilliant,” he said, his enormous, round eyes looking up from behind his lashes. A thin line of foam stretched across his upper lip. “You’re not going to have any?”

Sherlock pressed his mouth into a thin line and shifted his weight on the wooden bench he was sitting on. “No, John,” Sherlock said, his deepening voice pouring out of his mouth and into the very full cup of butterbeer in front of him, “I have something very serious I’d like to discuss.”

John pulled his glass away from his lips, swallowed, and said, “So do I. You first.”

It had only been a few days since his confrontation with Moriarty—thirty-six hours, to be exact. And in this time Sherlock refrained from telling John. They had been busy with scrolls for every class possible. Winter break was coming up in the near weeks and the professors felt no guilt upping the workload until that time came. Sherlock needed to have John’s full attention to explain what happened after detention.

“I know who it is,” he said quietly, eyes scanning the area of the Three Broomsticks.

“Who what is, Sherlock?”

Sherlock locked eyes with John and frowned. “Who has my parents held hostage. It’s Moriarty. Jim Moriarty.”

John’s brows furrowed and his focus set on Sherlock. “Jim? The kid that stutters and—”

“It’s an act,” Sherlock interrupted, “He’s putting on a show. He’s smarter than we thought…made us overlook him.”

John opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come out for a good minute or so. “You’re sure?” he questioned.

“Positive.”

John’s uncertainty trickled out the gaze he locked onto Sherlock. His butterbeer sat forgotten in front of him, the last sip nestled into the bottom. “…How?” he asked.

Sherlock’s chin tipped up as he spoke. “He confirmed on Friday.”

“Exactly like you said,” breathed John, “amazing.”

John eventually finished his butterbeer and was still watching Sherlock’s subtle movements, stunned, when the Slytherin said, “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

The bells on the door chimed. A girl Sherlock’s age with short, blonde hair stepped in and peered around the pub. Her eyes trailed all the drunken customers waddling around the bar and then spotted John. The snow blew in behind her. She looked relieved.

“John!”

John turned back immediately, spotted where the high-pitched wail-like voice came from, and quickly turned back to Sherlock.

“Ah…that…actually. Mary’s asked me to visit Honeyduke’s with her.” He paused and his tongue trailed a small line along his lower lip. “I think we might actually just hit it off.”

Sherlock only stared, unmoving. His blinks were rapid. Other than blinking, Sherlock Holmes did not move. His eyes were latched down onto John’s, both cycling over his delicate face and rummaging through his head.

John snatched his coat and stood. Just as he was about to turn away, he said quietly, “Sorry, Sherlock. I promised her awhile back, but I still wanted to come here with you.” He nodded his head in the direction of Sherlock’s full glass. “Drink that for me, will you? Cheers.”

And with one final look, John Watson turned on his heels and dashed on over to Mary’s patient spot at the doorway. He looped arms with her and exited the pub, not one final look back.

Sherlock downed his glass of butterbeer in one gulp. And when Madam Rosmerta passed next, he ordered two firewhiskeys and flashed Mycroft’s ID.

•••

John had entered the Flat one evening with a sloppy grin on his face. And Sherlock knew.

“Mary Morstan’s a fantastic kisser,” sighed John, his back pressing into the closed door as his eyes glazed over the windows across the room.

Sherlock closed his book, tilted his chin up, and bit his tongue. It was hard for him to take the next breath. Whether this was because John’s face glowed spectacularly with the setting sun or because John had kissed Mary, Sherlock didn’t know. But he had to focus on sucking air in through his nose—bitter, grimy air that could have passed from Mary’s mouth into John’s. Sherlock wanted to stop breathing all together, but John’s watch had settled onto Sherlock’s exasperated expression.

“That’s great, John,” he managed sourly, slipping the book off his lap and standing up. He marched to the door, nudged John away with his elbow, and flung it open. He walked. And he didn’t listen when John tried to call him back.

•••

They didn’t talk about Moriarty until John brought up the topic—an exact week and a half after Sherlock had first mentioned it.

“Has he done anything since?” said John. His head and sight was still towards the front of the room where Professor Lupin continued with class.

“Who?” asked Sherlock.

“Moriarty,” John whispered.

Sherlock only stared down at the parchment on the table and took in a few, shallow breaths.

“No.”

•••

“Hey.”

Sherlock only glanced over at him as they walked towards the Great Hall. The creases next to John’s eyes told Sherlock that John was in the midst of trying to decipher whether or not Sherlock wasn’t thinking about Moriarty or something else.

It wasn’t Moriarty this time. And Sherlock knew John wouldn’t realize that.

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose, his face otherwise showing no other forms of interest.

“I told you before. We’ll take care of this. I think we should just try and reason with him right now.”’

“Reason with Moriarty?” Sherlock mocked. He slid his line of view to his right, noting the squabbling group of first year Hufflepuffs. He sneered.

“You don’t think that’ll work?” asked John, “I can’t help to imagine at least trying it would be a good idea—or considering it at least.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nostrils. He didn’t respond. For one, John hadn’t met the real Moriarty. He was also dating Mary Morstan.

•••

John decided to sit with the Ravenclaws that afternoon.

•••

Sherlock walked.

In a time like this he’d generally be gasping in and out of irrational thoughts and breathing through a thin screen that blocked off most of his oxygen. But today was different. He stared ahead as he walked. He did not process what he was seeing, but he saw. And he continued to walk, his feet moving underneath him in some sort of rhythmic pattern. Only they knew where he was headed.

By the time he was in the library, he was already looking Molly Hooper in the eyes.

“Hi?” she said in a questioning tone. She had papers all about her, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and her fingertips trained on the lines of some purple bound book.

“I need help,” he said.

“What’s the issue?”

Sherlock pressed his lips into a line and took two lumbering steps over to her table. He seated himself. “I need a specific ingredient,” he said.

Molly looked at him with expansive eyes. She took a breath before saying, “And what ingredient is that?”

There was a silence between them. Then, Sherlock finally said, “Dittany—for Felix Felicis.”

“Dittany isn’t used in liquid luck, Sherlock.”

The Slytherin looked solemnly down at the table and followed the lines in the oak. He watched as they ran from one edge to the other, seeming as if they could continue for an eternity but knowing at some point or another they’d have to end.

He tasted the silence on his tongue. The bitter taste reminded him of the olives his mother once prepared in his favorite dish. He wanted to spit this taste out, the silence, but he swallowed it. It rolled down his throat and sunk into the pits of his stomach.

“John fancies Mary,” he said.

Molly made some vague noise from across the running lines of the table. He sensed her watch warming into his forehead, but he refused to look up.

“And why does that upset you?” she asked. She spread her hand across the table as if to hold something, but kept her cool palm against the smooth wood.

Sherlock found her eyes opposite him, warm and fragile. She blinked a quick flutter of the lashes.

“Because,” he said, but when he opened his mouth to finish his sentence, the words did not come. Instead, a stale, bitter breath escaped as his eyes seemingly looked past her.

She nodded.

“You look sad when you think he can’t so you.”

•••

It wasn’t the same as the time when he and John did not speak for a year.

He was still talking to John, still seeing John make decisions he could not speak out against.

But aside from the fact that they were still talking, Sherlock felt the isolation creep into the hollow of his bones and drip its dirty, rouge liquor into his throat as he trained his eyes on John’s hand finding Mary’s in a crowd.

John didn't go to the Ravenclaw table every day, thank Merlin. And most often or not, Mary didn't even sit with John for meals. Sherlock and John were still on their unspoken arrangements to sit with the Gryffindor community.

But Sherlock found himself spending more and more time with Molly. He'd rather be studying in the library with her instead of hearing about Mary back at the Flat—rather, fearing that John would say something about her in the likelihood that he wouldn't.

And the meals John spent with Mary, Sherlock tended to visit the Hufflepuff table.

Sherlock had also taken to playing deaf whenever the subject came up. He was once sitting in the Flat and John had mentioned something Mary said and Sherlock simply stared at the wall blankly. John got the message.

Although John didn't quite know why exactly Sherlock seemed to shut off when Mary was mentioned, Sherlock noticed that within the first week of their relationship John talked about her fewer and fewer.

Either he'd told Mary to stay back or she had something else on her mind because Mary Morstan never once spoke to Sherlock. She often caught his deceitful glance going her way in the hall, but didn't speak up about. Sherlock was so used to classmates lashing out at him in moments like these, but Mary never did. She only continued to take Sherlock's friend away from him without a word.

“Why is it that you don’t like her?” John once said.

“I know you better,” Sherlock said. He didn’t say more.

•••

“What memory did you use to summon your patronus?” asked Sherlock. It was the first words he’d spoken all day. John’s head turned immediately at this noise, his eyes large and shocked at the sudden sound. “Hmm?”

“The thought didn’t come to me until now,” Sherlock added.

John looked at him, but Sherlock could tell that his mind was somewhere else. He was thinking and he did so for a while until his chin jutted back ever so slightly and he blinked a few times. “Winning the Quidditch match last year. Well—er, aiding the win.”

Sherlock scratched his head. He waited for John to ask him what his thought had been that day back a year ago in the same room. But it never came.

Instead, Teddy Lupin stumbled in with his satchel practically falling off his shoulder and an armful of books and his hair tousled by the wind.

“Sorry ‘bout being late,” the professor said, words hurriedly escaping his mouth. He set down his stack of books and ran a hand through his hair. Teddy slipped his bag off his shoulder and tossed it to the other side of the room. It hit the wall with a large rattle and an empty jar hit the ground. The shattering noise only made Teddy twist his mouth into some sort of state that Sherlock took as “I didn’t mean to do that but I did and it wasn’t important anyways”. Lupin shrugged his shoulders and settled his focus back on him and John, and then he added, “Still can’t get used to the sodding stairs—even after seven years of ‘em.”

Sherlock was leaning against a desk with his wand pressed between both hands. He looked up at his professor, only two curls obscuring a small amount of his view.

“What?” asked Teddy.

Sherlock’s breath before his words was short. “I’ve found who is controlling my parents.” He made it clear that John was not at all involved. Because, of course, at the time he was probably sitting cross-legged atop his bed in his Gryffindor dorm thinking about Mary Morstan and the way her hair coiled just below her ears.

They told Teddy about the Imperius curse only once they had received Mycroft’s letter of authenticity. He’d known for a few short weeks. So the satisfaction of who the controller was wouldn’t be as satisfying as it was for Sherlock, nor as soul chilling.

“…And who has been setting Fluffy onto us,” John continued for him, obviously insulted by Sherlock’s exaggeration of the use of ‘I’ve’.

Sherlock interrupted John from the long list he was about to depart on. “I was right. It is a student here—our age, Slytherin. I’m always right.”

Teddy waited patiently. Sherlock saw it in the way his thumb ghosted over the stubble on his chin.

“It’s Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock said.

Silence crept through the Defense room immediately. Teddy glanced between Sherlock and John, pulled out the nearest chair, and sat himself down.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“He confronted me about it. There’s not a chance it’s someone else. His appearance is deceiving.”

A disheveled exhale leapt out of Teddy’s nostrils. He ran his hands through his hair. It was almost disbelief that he breathed out.

“What should we do?” asked John. It was a simple question, really—one that could be used for a magnitude of situations. Yet in that classroom it asked one thing: Do we kill Jim Moriarty? How might one go about killing a fifteen year old?

It became clear to Sherlock then. Moriarty’s reasoning behind cursing his parents was not to harm him. It was to challenge him.

Moriarty gave Sherlock one choice: Remove your parents from your life or accept my invitation. Though, really, it was only one option. Because Moriarty could convey which decision he’d have to settle for by the use of his parents.

Moriarty had challenged Sherlock to the greatest game fathomable. He had been all along.

Could Sherlock kill Jim Moriarty before he caught Sherlock?

“We take it up with the Ministry,” said Teddy.

Sherlock shot him a look. “We already have. And you know what Mycroft’s response was.”

“Can’t they handle this situation? There must be a way to remove the curse without any deaths. Moriarty can be sent Azkaban, you’d get your parents back, and everything will be good.”

“It’s an Unforgivable Curse. There’s not a removal spell. That’s why it’s an Unforgivable Curse.”

Teddy’s tongue slipped between his lips and gnawed on the bottom one.

“I need time to think,” he said.

John glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock held his gaze and didn’t say a word.

•••

It was difficult. It really was. Sherlock was in no place to deny it anymore.

He was completely falling for his best friend.

At first he didn’t exactly notice it. He was aware that his thoughts were shifting slightly and some were occurring more than they’d had previously, but now they were inevitable. And constant. John needn’t tilt his head while writing and Sherlock’s brain had already begun to soar like those small black birds that lived around the Manor.

He had no plans to let John know of this, either. Luckily, he had Moriarty to distract him from it. He didn’t have to focus on jealousy when a fifteen-year-old puppeteer was controlling his parents. 

Sometimes, in the middle of the night when John was sleeping in the bed only a few wand-lengths away from his own, Sherlock would prop himself up on his elbows (careful not to wake the cat if she was sleeping with him that night) and watch John. He watched John quite often, but times like these he did not record how many breaths John had in his research scroll. He simply roamed over the moonlight curving over John’s jawline and the softness of his temples. Sherlock would have the urge at these times to creep out of bed and slip into John’s, but he hindered these thoughts with Moriarty’s face chuckling before him about what he’d done.

And he ignored the comments when they came.

Like when Phillip plodded past them at breakfast. John forcing Sherlock to eat really wasn’t an unusual site. But then again, Anderson didn’t quite know what was normal when it came to them. Or any of the Gryffindors, frankly.

Phillip leaned down so that his face was hovering just over John’s left shoulder and settled his smirk onto John and him. “Mate,” he asked, all forged sincerity bubbling off his voice, “You two queer?”

“I have a girlfriend, Anderson,” came John’s reply.

Sherlock’s remained hidden in his throat.


	18. Year Four IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realizes the importance John Watson has in his life with the help of an enchanted mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why not welcome a new year with a bit of potterlock?

“You seem awfully hung up about something lately,” said Greg.

Sherlock squared his sight onto him. “And that’s to mean what exactly, Lestrade?”

Greg flopped himself into a worn, red chair and began picking the seams with his dirt-encrusted nails. Sherlock envisioned several other so-called brave men peeling away at this throughout time. It was reasonably valid, too—considering the state of the chair.

“Just that how John’s with Mary, you know. You seem a bit…off.” Greg had the decency to look up at Sherlock this time, instead of down at the chair, which bursted at the seams with carelessness. “Just thought something may have happened with you two again, seeing as how you’ve been with each other,” Greg added.

Sherlock refused to sit down himself. Instead, he replied, “Everything’s fine, Lestrade.”

One of Greg’s blue eyebrows shot up as his hand dusted over his jawline. “You’ve been sitting with the Slytherins. Alone. You haven’t done this since second year,” he said.

“Are you friends with Molly Hooper?” Sherlock spat. “Has she put you up to this?”

“So you are angry. You can’t keep John to yourself, you know. He has other friends and relationships with various other people, believe it or not…And no, not really friends with Molly Hooper. Know who she is, though.”

“It doesn’t matter if John has multiple friends. He’s my only friend,” said Sherlock.

“No. I’m your friend. Potter’s your friend, same with Stamford. So is this Molly chick I take it.” Greg paused for a moment. His eyes scanned over the Gryffindor common room, lingering on the handful of students dispersed around the space before perching back onto the lone Slytherin. “You don’t have to be so black and white about everything, Sherlock,” he continued, “not everyone hates you. Just because some have insulted you for your talent doesn’t mean they all do. Some are indifferent. Some are actually tickled pink when you talk to them. You have friends, Sherlock. Multiple ones. Just as John does.”

Sherlock took in a deep breath of cinnamon and smoke and then sighed. He tucked his wand behind his ears and then packed his hands into his trouser pockets. “Can we be done now?” he asked hastily, eyeing up the doorway.

Greg frowned. “Yeah.”

•••

John’s eyebrows furrowed. “You mean to say that—”

“Sherlock feels left out now that you’re dating Mary,” Greg finished for him. He offered John a warm expression that John didn’t quite know what he was supposed to take it as.

He, on the other hand, decided to nod and mumble his response. “Best get to charms,” he said to Greg, before he turned and strolled relatively fast in the other direction.

•••

John caught Sherlock alone that day in the Flat after dinner. He sat in one of the large, purple chairs in front of the fireplace—specifically, the one that John did not usually sit in. His legs were strewn over one side and a book rested on his chest.

John reared around the back of the chair and seated himself on the arm next to Sherlock's lanky and stretched out legs. It was a tight fit. "Still reading Unforgivable Curses and Unfortunate Endings?" John asked. Sherlock's eyes lifted up heavily and roamed over his face. An uncomfortable, embarrassing feeling flooded his veins as Sherlock studied him.

"I have it committed to memory," Sherlock remarked. His voice was faint. John hardly heard him over the fire and it's paper-crunching sound. Sherlock's head pressed against the back of the chair and his eyes closed once more.

"Then why do you still keep it?"

Sherlock didn't open his eyes as his response hummed through his lips. "Sentiment," he responded.

John sucked in a large breath through his nostrils and tried not to cough back the scent of embers and spilled ink. He glanced around the room and surely there was a dribbled glass on Sherlock's desk with a handful of dark, black paw prints near the crime scene. He chuckled and stretched out his neck. The soreness from Quidditch practice felt like a hundred hippogriffs had danced on his spine.

John nudged the side of Sherlock's leg with his shin. "Greg said you feel jealous because I'm spending more time with Mary and not you."

Sherlock's eyes shot open and caught John's light stare immediately. "Lestrade's wrong," he said, "as usual."

“Then why exactly have you been put off?”

Sherlock closed his eyes again and nestled his head into the crook between the chair's arm and back. He turned his head to the side so when he spoke his words translated into gibberish before they could enter John's ear.

"I've had school work, mind you." This was said very loudly with a grunt, since it was Sherlock's third time repeating it. The Slytherin's fingers nudged his book on Unforgivable Curses to the floor and he wrapped his arms around his chest.

"And my parents are cursed," he added once he turned so he could speak clearly. "Molly Hooper has been infatuated with me since second year, Lestrade's on my back about you, there's a student plotting my death, and my best friend has run off with some Ravenclaw and has left me to fend for myself."

"I haven't left you to fend for yourself, Sherlock," John said suddenly. He removed a piece of Gladstone’s fur off Sherlock’s sock. "Greg is only worried about you, Moriarty will be taken care of in time, and Molly has never once come out and said that."

Sherlock's lips twitched. His voice was raw. "I deduced it," he replied.

"Well, that's not fair for—"

Sherlock interrupted, "How did you know that Molly's 'in love' with me?"

John discarded the piece of fur and then went for his own wand. He twiddled with it and then tucked it behind his ear. His knuckles ran over his jaw. "She confronted me about it...Asked what I would do."

Sherlock paused. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. "What would you do?"

"I told her to just leave it now. You have a lot on your broom," John said, "and frankly I don't know if you'd even have interest her."

John spotted Sherlock's hands draw tighter around his waist. "I don't."

John continued, "You have your mind elsewhere."

Sherlock's eyes shot open for what seemed to be the eleventh time that night and the cold, icy blood flooded through John's veins again. "Hmm?" John hummed.

"I'm married to my work," Sherlock spat.

"I know. That's what I told her."

•••

Saturday began with Sherlock falling out of bed. Perhaps when he told John he fell out of bed frequently it wasn't a lie.

This time it wasn't due to proximity (and that was because John was tucked into the window ledge on the other side of the purple-sheathed room). This time was simply a not-so-pleasant dream of Jim Moriarty eating an apple. That and only that.

A slightly startled and partially confused second later, Sherlock pressed his bare palms unto the cool, castle flooring and stood up to find John where he was.

His head slowly craned to where the Slytherin stood and Sherlock noticed his eyebrows do that ballet of guessing. “Rough night?” John asked casually, his arm resting on a propped up knee. His sandy hair shot up in all different directions—though most tended to sprout up to the left—and there was a faint shadow of exhaustion that fogged underneath his hazy, freshly-awaken eyes.

“Waking up was the worst of it, mind you,” he replied, tugging his hiked up tee back down. The morning sunlight that trickled in through the windows made it difficult for Sherlock to see, so it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. Sherlock stretched his arms behind him before deducing, “You’ve been up for…two hours?”

As John turned back to watch outside the window, the light danced off of his jawline and made Sherlock’s mouth water. He had to focus when John motioned with his elbow to his own desk across the room. “Brought back breakfast,” John said.

While Sherlock stepped off the raised part of the flooring where their beds were, John added, “Ran into Teddy. He asked us to come to his room in an hour. Hope you weren’t planning on blowing anything up today.” John smiled a bit when he said the last part, but it was difficult to see the full extent of it with the sun just next to him.

Through a mouthful of toast, Sherlock replied, “Engulfing the innermost part of my cauldron was for tomorrow.” He held up another piece of toast and cocked an eyebrow.

When John finally noticed, he shook his head. “I’m full. It’s yours,” the Gryffindor said.

•••

Teddy was eager. Eager like the brook that lied behind the Manor. The professor almost stood on his tiptoes and his arms were clasped behind his back. Behind him sprouted something tall, though Sherlock couldn’t tell because there was a sheet covering it. Teddy’s hair was a mess, too—he needn’t put effort in it today without having to teach—and there was a hint of bright orange stubble across his jawline and chin. “I have something here with me—”

“Really…” Sherlock interrupted sarcastically.

“—and I think you two might be interested in knowing what it is, considering it took me an entire year just to track this down,” Teddy continued.

“Is it a creature? A magical creature?” asked John.

“The happiest man would look into this and see himself exactly as he is,” said Teddy. He seated himself atop a desk next to the structure. A small smile tugged at the corner of his plump lips. “I’d like one of you two remove the sheet please.”

Sherlock took the initiative. With three graceful steps, he was close enough to take a handful of the pilled fabric and yank it down so it rumpled near his ankles. From behind him, John sucked in a heavy breath. For what reason, Sherlock did not know.

It was a mirror. Teddy Lupin had called them from their activities to see a sodding mirror.

Sherlock pressed his lips into a line, clasped his hands together, and pointed his fingertips towards his professor. He over-pronounced his words when he said irritably, “It’s a mirror. You spent an entire year tracing down a mirror.”

Teddy’s ginger eyebrows mashed together like a flitterby caterpillar. “What do you see?”

Sherlock’s annoyance spotlighted the crisp castle air that hovered just behind his neck. Shuddering, he glanced back at the mirror, a hand motioning to the structure dramatically. “There’s my face…John’s face…the classroom.” His voice was stiff and impatient and his face was drawn taught to itself. His eyebrows shot up as if something in the mirror had changed, but it hadn’t. It was still the mirror.

John took a step up and stood beside Sherlock. When Sherlock glanced over, John’s face was smudged into a sort of confused bewilderment. It was an expression Sherlock had seen only once before on John—the first time John had spotted Hogwarts on the boat ride in first year.

“Why am I holding the Quidditch Cup?” asked John. His eyes didn’t move from mirror, but his body shifted slightly to face Teddy.

“It shows not your face, but what your heart desires,” said Teddy quietly from Sherlock’s right.

“So then is it broken? Why is it working for John and not me?”

Teddy opened his mouth to respond, but John took the second to add, “My mum and dad are there. Harriet. Sherlock, too.”

Sherlock’s lips parted. A heavy weight filled his lungs. “I’m there?” he asked, his eyes hungrily looking back from John to the mirror, which hadn’t changed.

He watched as John nodded in the mirror, but then suddenly Sherlock noticed something moving. In the reflection, John’s hand reached over and clasped Sherlock’s. John smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock helplessly stared back.

He gulped.

John was holding his hand.

Well, metaphorically he was holding his hand. Since, when Sherlock glanced down at his real hand, it was still hanging lonesome at his side. And when Teddy asked what the matter was, it felt the heaviest it had ever felt.

“John turned to me.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly. John did turn to him in the mirror, but he sure as Merlin wasn’t going to tell Teddy about the hand part. “But he’s still standing straight next to me.”

“Then you desire John’s companionship most. And so does John, alongside the love of his family and having a successful career,” remarked the professor.

At that moment it had apparently clicked in John’s head because the Gryffindor turned to him—the real John this time—and his face twisted into his expression he held when Sherlock deduced something. Perhaps it was a mixture of bewilderment and astonishment, or perhaps it was merely John’s exterior echoing what his mind was sifting through.

Teddy’s toe repeatedly tapping into a desk placed a rhythm behind John’s words when John said, “You’re parents aren’t there? Just me?”

“I don’t need my parents. Clearly I can suffice without them.”

“What about last night? The whole sentiment thing?”

“I care about their well being and safety because they are family but they apparently are not what make me happy.” There was more he would have said, but he stopped short, because he didn’t feel comfortable talking about his boggart. It made him sick to even admit that such sentiment was his biggest fear. It wasn’t healthy for him to have John in place for the item he desired most and the item he would fear most of losing.

He had grown too attached.

Not only was John his biggest fear and his most desired goal in life, but he was also the reason his patronus produced such a bright light on the first try.

He was never supposed to come to this point. People would only hurt him in the end.


	19. Year Five I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the summer the Beauxbaton school was attacked. They'll be staying the year at Hogwarts until the threats are cleared.

“…And because of this, we will have visitors at our school until the threats clear. They will be using our facilities and will be treated with the dignity you would offer your current fellow scholars. There is not a set return time for such students.”

Sherlock slid his wand behind his ear as he gave entertainment to the thought of counting how many blue tulip hats sat at the front of the Hall. He decided against it seeing as it would take up too much time—nonetheless being completely and utterly trivial.

Due to it being the Great Feast, John sat in the middle of the Hall with the Gryffindors. Sherlock was forced to sit with his fellow Slytherins. In all honesty, it wasn’t horrible. Slytherins kept to themselves. Plus, he only caught Jim Moriarty’s glare once. It would just be far more enjoyable if he had John sitting by his side.

As McGonagall went on about the reason the Beauxbatons students were spending the majority of the school year with them, Sherlock rested his chin on his upturned fist as he settled his gaze onto where Lestrade, Albus, and Mike were whispering and motioning to a few of the Beauxbaton girls. John just sat quietly as his eyes danced between McGonagall and the various students in their satin uniforms.

This left a question in Sherlock’s mind: If John was not dating Mary, would he join in with his friend’s annotations?

Speaking of Mary, he had not heard much of her over the summer. Although he’d spent the entire summer at the Watson household with all their telly-yelling, dinner mishaps, and early morning wakeups, Mary was not usually a topic of conversation. Granted, she’d come up—Mrs. Watson asked about her the night they arrived, but after John had spilled how well their relationship was going, there hadn’t been a need to talk about her. Her letters even became less frequent. Rather than one every few or so days, they withered to a once a week occurrence and then to a bi-weekly chore.

He’d been thankful of this…specifically because he, instead of Mary, got to spend every waking moment with John. He’d been the one to wake up to see John’s sleep woven hair, John’s bored antics, John’s nagging to go downtown on their broomsticks. Mary wasn’t the one that splashed in an old creek with John and she sure as Merlin wasn’t the one who threw John’s family into a fit after she’d won Family Game Night for the fifth week in a row.

It had been difficult for him and his bloody feelings for the first month. Although they did most of these things at Hogwarts, John often went and did stupid teenage things with his Gryffindor mates then. In the summer, John was all his.

It had been nice. Resplendent, too. And now sitting alone at the Slytherin table with his parent’s puppeteer a few students down, Sherlock suddenly felt very, very alone.

So he focused on McGonagall and all her specifications of the upcoming year.

“In addition to the joint-classes, we will hold a winter ball so that both the students from Hogwarts and the students from Beauxbatons can enjoy themselves before the term ends. We will release more on this later in time.”

As they exited the Great Hall—students buzzing with the excitement of the ‘new additions’—Sherlock was able to catch up with John and walk with him and his mates up to Gryffindor Tower.

“Spot any girl you might fancy asking to the dance?” asked John. His eyes crinkled at the sides when he said ‘fancy’ and his mouth hitched up into a slight smile that made Sherlock giddy inside. Back at his house, Sherlock didn’t notice any new physical signs of maturity. But now, back in the place that they’d grown up in, the torches on the wall highlighted his cheekbones. John’s plump eyebrows had nestled downwards a bit and the creases under his eyes were more noticeable. His thin lips protruded when he said certain words like ‘what’ and ‘whiffling wands’ but curled in for words similar to ‘Hufflepuff’. It was extraordinary, really, to notice such small things about someone through time.

It was in the middle of deciding whether this was because of his deduction skills or just natural psychology when Sherlock lied, “A few”, and then brought up the subject of Beauxbatons’s tall headmistress. John laughed at that.

“She was taller than Hagrid! Didn’t even think that was possible!”

When he and John parted ways, Sherlock down the hall to the Flat and John through the portrait, John pushed him with an elbow and said sincerely, “Get some sleep, right?”

“In the name of Merlin,” Sherlock replied, “shove off.” Although he added an eye roll in as he responded, he was thankful for the fact that John was looking for his best interest.

•••

He’d accepted the fact that the first few days back at Hogwarts would be lonely. Though it was not a type of lonely in which there was wallowing, but more of a solemn loneliness that plagued his bones whenever he knew John was with Mary or his mates.

So he responded to Mycroft’s letters and he studied with Molly and he visited Mrs. Hudson’s hut for tea in the afternoon on Thursday. It was decent, really. He still met with John, besides knowing that John would need time to rekindle his other relationships aside from his with Sherlock.

What Sherlock didn’t expect was the sociability of the visiting Beauxbaton students. Each one he passed in the halls offered him a warm, stomachache-sweet French smile. (Whether his loss of appetite the first few days back was because of the visitors or the plain fact of Hogwarts, Sherlock didn’t decide.) The worst of the French was that they actually attempted conversation with him because they lacked the knowledge of his reputation. So he deduced them. And sure enough, after addictions, broken relationships, and bad habits poured out each foreigner they stopped talking to him.

Aside from one, that is.

She approached him with a blank face rather than an unpleasant grin.

Her long, thick hair coiled was in twists and pinned onto her head. A coat of red lipstick trailed along the defined edges of her mouth. Her hips swayed. Her heels clicked. And when she blinked she took all the time in the world. He could tell from just her gait that she was not like the others. If not for her impeccably pressed satin robes, Sherlock would have pegged her to be a Beauxbaton teacher. The confidence pooled off her shoulders with such poise that would make most boys’ knees weak.

But not Sherlock.

Instead of swooning, he offered the French girl a crude look and continued his way up to the Owlery, otherwise uninterested in her being there at all.

This would have been the last of her if not for her turning around and following him up the last set of stairs.

“There isn’t a letter in your name here,” came her sultry, decidedly British, voice a broomslength away from him. Her lips arched as she watched him studying her. Sherlock turned.

“My name?” he asked, chin tilted upwards to pose his height.

“Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes? The school detective?”

Sherlock kept his face blank. John didn’t even know his full name.

He took an intruding step forward and loomed over her petite height. “And may I ask how you know that?”

This didn’t intimidate her. Rather, she fed off it. A sly grin slipped onto her apple-red lips.

Apple…Jim Moriarty…

Sherlock shooed the thought elsewhere.

“You have your ways. As do I,” she responded coyly. The Beauxbaton placed a delicate hand near Sherlock’s collarbone and adjusted his tie. He fixed his gaze on one of the owl’s ahead.

Sherlock pegged for something clever and cutting but instead settled for, “You aren’t French.”

"Ah, Mr. Holmes,” she purred, “You have quite the reputation amongst the Slytherins, might I say. But I’m not sure they’re correct…English people do, in fact, live in France. It doesn’t take a genius to know that.”

“What is it that you want?”

“You see,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. He spotted her nails painted the same color as her lips. “I have a gift—you can call it—for knowing what people like.”

“And how might that relate to me?” he played.

“Because I know what you like. Though I would have assumed you’d have better taste than a Quidditch Chaser.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. It was his best option.

She took this time to hook her hands onto her hips and add, “But if I’m not mistaken, John’s dating Mary. And you wouldn’t be able to take him to the ball anyway. It’s strictly boy-girl.”

He shot her a disgusted look. “Get to the conclusion.”

“You are in need of a date.”

“I’m sure you have many suitors lining up the corridors for your attention.”

“I don’t want them,” she purred, “I want you.”

Sherlock sucked in a heavy, owl-fifth scented breath. “I don’t need your pity,” he said. He offered her a counterfeit smile, turned on his heel, and downed the stairs. And he didn’t respond when her voice slithered down to him.

“Irene Adler. I’ll be waiting.”

•••

The second Tuesday he was back at school, John found that his throat was sore.

He sat in the library with Sherlock as the Slytherin darted in and out of the aisles with more and more books stacked up to his chin.

“What are you doing?” he asked when Sherlock returned from his fourth trip.

“Selecting books, obviously.”

John rested his chin on his upturned fist and groaned.

“I’m researching. Specifically, books relating to Unforgiveable Curses,” Sherlock said. He organized the many stacks on the table by what seemed to be alphabetically by title.

“I thought we came to the conclusion that you either have to kill Moriarty or kill your parents?”

“There’s usually an exception in magic. And I’m going to find this exception,” replied Sherlock. He sat himself down in front of John.

“Right,” John said, and he loosened his tie, “well. Have you found yourself a date to the ball yet?”

Sherlock’s eyes skimmed their way up from a book cover to briefly John’s lips, then his eyes. John swallowed and ignored it…probably an accident.

“I was thinking about asking Molly,” Sherlock said. His fingers absentmindedly flipped through a dust covered, leather bound book.

Right then, John considered visiting Madame Pomfrey’s for his throat. Quidditch practice would be starting in two weeks earlier this year since they would be competing against one Beauxbaton team along with their normal house competitions. He couldn’t imagine starting off the season with a cold. It’d be miserable.

John focused his attention on the apple he’d nicked from the kitchens and after taking a handful of bites, he said, “Greg’s already asked her.”

“You mean George?”

“Oi, I think I’d know my own best mate’s name, Sherlock. We’ve gone over this before.”

Sherlock didn’t reply for a moment. As John ate away at half his apple, Sherlock skimmed through his book. Eventually, he said, “I’ve been asked by someone, anyway.”

John had to keep himself from spitting out what was in his mouth. “By who?”

“A Beauxbaton student. You wouldn’t know her,” Sherlock replied.

“Then why were you planning on going with Molly? As friends, I take it.”

“I wasn’t going to go with the Beauxbaton. Figured I’d ask Molly and if something came up—such as this—I just wouldn’t go at all. Save the hassle,” Sherlock hummed. He switched books and seemed clearly enthralled by the new one.

“What’s her name—the Beauxbaton?”

Sherlock glanced up and met his stare. “Irene Adler,” he said.

By the time John had finished his apple and persuaded himself into writing the first few lines of his History of Magic scroll, Sherlock was already through scanning his sixth book.

•••

It turned out that John did need to visit Madame Pomfrey. On Thursday he had a throbbing headache, a running nose, and an even sorer throat.

Luckily, he’d slept in the Flat that previous night, so he didn’t have to spend the entirety of his day bedridden in the Gryffindor tower alone.

Sherlock had left about an hour ago to grab some potions ingredients on the outskirts of the Forest. He had claimed that he’d pick up some food and medicine from the hospital wing. Though, if John were completely honest, Sherlock would only return with his plants and his sodding twigs.

So when he closed his eyes and nodded off to sleep for a bit, he was surprised when Sherlock and the cat awoke him.

Sherlock, the cat, and a tray with brilliantly colored vials on it, that is.

After placing down the tray on John’s desk momentarily, Sherlock slid his ingredients bag off his shoulder and tossed it lightly on his chair. John watched as he padded back over to the tray and brought it up that platform and sat on the edge of John’s bed, ampt room between his legs and Sherlock’s thigh.

“Mrs. H wishes you well. And sent these,” he explained, motioning a porcelain hand over the silver tray with potions and concoctions on it. There was even a small kettle with enough tea in it for two cuppas. John hummed with relief as Sherlock got to work.

“This one,” he held up a small vial with some sort of beige, creamy ointment, “…is apparently for the top of your nose. Clears your sinuses, I’d have to presume.”

Sherlock handed him the vial and John propped himself up on his elbows to spread the paste along the bridge of his nose. Once finished, the Slytherin handed him a vial of a red liquid. “This is to be ingested once every twelve hours. She said something about it being for your throat.”

With a single flick of his wrist, John downed the contents of his vial and then tried to hold in the coughing fit that followed the bitter, cherry taste.

Sherlock’s eyes washed over the rest of the tray and caught onto the kettle. “Tea?” he asked, lifting his eyes up to John’s only after the word had completely abandoned his lips.

John nodded, adjusted the pillow behind his neck, and passed him the empty vial.

Sherlock poured their tea and handed one to John before placing the tray near the foot of the bed and sitting crosslegged.

“Didn’t think you’d actually get something for me,” remarked John. The hot steam that rose up from his tea made his nostrils clear a bit. Not a considerably large amount, but large enough for him to notice.

“What makes you think that I’d disappoint you?” asked Sherlock.

“Past experiences, perhaps.”

Sherlock made an ambiguous noise at this (which John took as: “Suit yourself.”) and slithered his eyes to the winter sunlight streaming through the windows. They sat like that for a while until John spoke up.

“So,” he managed between slurps, “what have I missed today?”

Sherlock laced his hand around his mug and settled it in his lap. “Aside from schoolwork, Lestrade flung mashed potatoes onto Albus’s face, in which Albus proceeded to lick off what he could. Mike caught his essay on fire in Charms. And Gryffindors had dancing lessons for the ball. My guess is McGonagall taught it.”

“I don’t know how to dance. How am I supposed to impress Mary?” John asked as he felt his heart drop. Mary found the ball important, seeing as she constantly brought it up in casual conversations. And now he wouldn’t even be able to maneuver his feet in the right place like every one else. He’d ruin everyth—

“I can teach you,” offered Sherlock, “Mummy and Father had both Mycroft and I classically trained. Pureblood bollocks.”

“Really?”

“It isn’t entirely difficult.”

John offered his Slytherin friend a smile and nudged him with his shoulder. He heard a soft chuckle of air shoot out of Sherlock’s nostrils as he sipped at his tea. Dancing lessons _pleased_ Sherlock? Odd.

Sherlock reached behind him and tossed John a biscuit. “Oh. I was told to have you eat this. And to say ‘You better get your arse in shape for the big match next week, Watson’. With love from your dear friend Lestrade.”

“Merlin, my friends are pricks,” he sighed.

A small smile hitched at the corner of Sherlock’s lips as he pressed them to the edge of his mug. “Not all.”


	20. Year Five II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is starving. More on the solstice ball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 points to your house if you can spot the Walk the Moon ref or the Vance Joy Ref. ~~Or the wolfstar ref~~.

Sherlock closed Mrs. Hudson’s door and began his journey back up to the castle to find that someone was watching him. The trees shuddered when he first stepped out. Fairly obvious.

He didn’t make it known that he knew. Just continued up the hill with his ingredients parcel filled with various brews for John.

Footsteps puttered behind him. Sherlock didn’t turn until he knew completely that the person meant for themselves to be seen.

Although, the minute they stepped onto the covered bridge and the heels clacked on the wood Sherlock Holmes most definitely knew who was following him.

He spun around on the balls of his feet to stop her in her tracks immediately. “Irene Adler,” he hummed, chin jutting out in his satisfaction, “what a surprise it is.”

“Mr. Holmes. Good afternoon,” she said. Irene crossed her arms over her chest.

“And what may I help you with on this fine day?” He exaggerated the word fine. For what reason he didn’t know. Felt right, apparently.

“Oh, simply admiring the weather,” she commented. With that she began to walk forward. Sherlock followed.

“The sky is grey,” Sherlock remarked.

“Thought about my offer, Mr. Holmes?”

He had caught up with her now. Sherlock’s hands found their way into his trouser pockets. “Hardly. I have no need to go to the ball with you, or at all.”

“Think of going to the ball with me as another implication in the game.” Her vowels sounded round as they fluttered out her lips.

Perhaps he would, after all, be making an appearance at the ball. He supposed Moriarty would always be a perfectly fine reason for attending a ball on the winter solstice. Sherlock didn’t have any other plans for the twenty-first anyway.

“The game,” he repeated

“Yes.”

“And what is your relationship to Jim Moriarty, then?” he asked. He sucked in a cold, November breath. This is what he’d been waiting patiently for. Over a year’s worth of tolerance and today was the day. More information was about to slip into his view.

Irene stopped. She tugged down her long satin sleeves. “A family friend.”

“That’s all?”

“We’ve had quite the…history. If you know what I mean.” Irene winked. Sherlock took no care to her advancement.

He was cautious. One wrong move and he’d lose his chance.

“Though, I could tell you more about dear old Jim if you accompany me on the Solstice,” she offered. Her hands folded so that one elbow was propped atop an arm. Irene licked her lips.

It was a rough play, considering he dreaded the idea of going to the ball. Having to watch John and Mary enjoying themselves all night was like sitting through History of Magic for a total of five years. But he’d do it because something about Irene Adler made his blood boil.

And something about Jim Moriarty made every being in his body rot.

“Consider me your…escorter,” Sherlock said, adding in perfectly pronounced French. He turned and faced back to the castle. He began to walk.

Once the got to the end of the bridge they turned to separate ways. “I’ll see you at the Entrance Hall at six-forty-five,” said Irene, “unless, of course, you’d like to learn more about each other a night beforehand.” 

Sherlock continued in his own direction without a response.

His mouth tasted bitter. The wind whistled a chill through his ear.

•••

He didn't like to say it, let alone think it. Because it was hard enough to even realize what had happen. He'd tried pushing it aside and ignoring it, too. But this was something he'd never experienced before—something unusual, something wicked. 

He'd known that if he were to pursue a romantic relationship with someone it would be with a male, not a female. But Sherlock didn't dwell on it because it wasn't important. He knew that his mind was not wired for such a relationship with someone, such a boundary of trust. It was difficult enough just finding someone worth talking to. 

So he had decided against even thinking about such. 

But that was then and this was now. 

And now, John Watson's hand was perched upon his own and John Watson's body was enveloped inside Sherlock's arm and Sherlock couldn't help but to wish it all away. Wish all the walls down and the self-preservation thoughts to be gone. Sherlock wanted to rid himself of his bones, his soul purpose.

He’d charmed his violin replay what melody he’d inputted into it earlier so now not only was there music flowing throughout the Flat, but there was his music—Sherlock, himself.

The problematic aspect of desiring a different relationship with John was that John had no intention of reciprocating. He was currently dating Mary, currently heterosexual for what the world knew. So even if his relationship broke off with Mary, there was still the conflict of mirrored thoughts.

Sherlock had started John out with a simple waltz box step, him leading. Sure, at the real ball Mary wouldn’t lead John, but for now it was best. It let John get the grip of his feet while Sherlock got a grip of his head.

His voice was low and controlled, unlike his thoughts. “Back, step, three…side, step, three…front, step, three…side, step, three…repeat,” he hummed lightly.

John’s cold had drifted away in his sleep the night before and although he was still a bit groggy in the head and stuffed in the nose, he was much better. He even went back to classes that day, much to the surprise of his Gryffindor mates. Sherlock could tell as much, for the glimmer reappeared in his eyes when he smiled.

Sherlock steadied his sight on John’s eyes for a moment and watched as John’s focus dripped from the walls of the room, to Sherlock’s face, and then what he thought was Gladstone pouncing around somewhere behind him.

It was times like these when Sherlock prided knowing that deduction didn’t come naturally to others as it did for him. If so, John would have already read the thoughts in his head, the emotions restrained with teeth clenched down on a tongue.

Under John’s eyes his skin was dark and loose—he hadn’t gotten a decent amount of sleep the past few nights what with the coughing and sneezing waking him up at unsystematic points in his sleep cycle. He’d lost the majority of his tan over the last few months, too; nevertheless being outside a good portion for Quidditch practice. John’s ears were flushed a light red from the heat of the fire and his breathing was a bit tight and jagged compared to it’s usual pace. Though overall John was John—just tired and energy depleted and compressed tightly in Sherlock’s arms.

When Sherlock woke up to John curled up next to him at the Leaky Cauldron he was startled. Granted, he hadn’t really sorted out his feelings (he despised such a word, despite its purpose), but he knew one thing for sure: John’s warmth against his chest was something he doubted he could process. This was the same feeling he felt now, but he was more at peace. Perhaps this was because of the soft music coming from atop Sherlock’s desk or because he and John were moving steadily across the carpet in their worn-through socks and pajama bottoms.

“You’re going to lead now,” Sherlock said without warning. He dropped John’s hand and stepped back. “Take my hand as I had yours. Your hand goes around my waist… just switching positions.”

“Merlin’s beard. This is practically a science…” John commented as he did as he was instructed.

“An art form, actually.”

Sherlock kept the movements and turns slow this time around, purposefully giving John ample time to rearrange all the steps in his brain.

As a loud noise came from Gladstone behind John, Sherlock nudged John’s chin up with the light touch of his knuckles. “Don’t look back. Keep your eyes on me. Count aloud if you must, but don’t look elsewhere.”

John chuckled. “You’re holding back, aren’t you…” he teased.

“Shut up,” Sherlock grunted.

Sherlock could tell that while John maintained steady eye contact, somewhere within his head he was attempting to stay off Sherlock’s feet. For that, Sherlock was grateful.

He didn’t like to say it, let alone think it.

Sherlock Holmes wanted John Watson as his own—his own friend, his own brother, his own lover.

A chalky taste crept into his mouth when the word appeared in his thoughts, though he’d known all along. It was always there.

The conflict with a large number of romantic relationships was that they were essentially based on touch—more so than communication and expressing ideas. Sherlock did not want this with John. He wanted John’s loyalty, desired John’s companionship, and craved the crumbs of John’s love. And Sherlock was so, so famished.

But it would never happen because John was dating Mary. And it was settled.

So Sherlock swallowed and gave into letting John go.

He stepped back. “You’re caught up,” he said. And he darted off to the loo the second John glanced away.

From outside the door, he heard John say, “Thanks, Sherlock…It means a lot.”

•••

As John watched Sherlock toss his wand in the air so that it flipped three times and catch it again, Professor Lupin’s voice echoed out his office. “How do you two feel I teach best?”

Teddy was supposed to be in there grabbing some sort of parchment to show both him and Sherlock, but he was taking longer than John thought he ought. “Why are asking us this?” he asked. Sherlock’s wand made another loop in the air.

Lupin’s head popped through the doorway and he replied, “I want to make sure my teaching is effective for you and your lot. For everyone else my class is the only time they’ll learn defensive spells—you both get more than you should.”

“We need it more. We have someone controlling Sherlock’s parents.” John’s hand flew out and caught Sherlock’s wand as it leaped once more in the air. He clenched on tight and tucked it into his back pocket, ignoring Sherlock’s glare.

Finally, Teddy emerged from his office with a rolled up bit of parchment, which he tapped lightly against his thighs as he downed the stairs. “So,” he repeated, jumping off the last step and landing on the cobblestone with a dry huff, “how do I teach best?”

For the first time that afternoon Sherlock spoke. “With your mouth shut,” he said.

“Sherlock!”

Teddy’s eyes widened. He threaded his arms over his chest and took a step forward. Some sort of emotion flashed past Teddy’s emerald eyes. He looked cross.

“I think you're better at demonstrating or bringing in activities we can actually be involved in. It's how our generation learns best,” Sherlock explained. One of his porcelain hands fumbled up to his hairline to scratch a curl out of sight.

John was sure his exhale of relief could be heard across the school grounds.

“So like the boggart chapter,” Teddy said aloud, although John himself would have kept that thought in his head—completely unnecessary.

“Mhmm.” The noise came from Sherlock’s mouth like a pair of buzzing bees. It tickled John’s ears.

“I think I may have to try that more,” said Teddy. He uncrossed his arms and paced over to the closest window. The weather had been brimming over the chockfull cup of autumn lately. Snow would be arriving any week now. Which meant the Winter Solstice Ball was approaching, along with the powdery piles. Mary hadn’t mentioned the Ball too much recently (aside from a offhand comment that John missed dancing lessons) but John knew what was coming. Every girl found herself in a fairytale come the time of a school dance. And John was positive his girlfriend would be among them.

Teddy stepped away from the window and turned to fidget with something on a desk behind him. His long, lanky arms reached up and scratched at the back of his neck. As his button down scrunched up around his shoulder blades, John spotted a tattoo of the moon.

And so did Sherlock, considering what exited his lips next. “Did you have to get that inked on you or is that just a perk of being a Metamorphmagus?”

Teddy was still itching his neck when he turned around. “The bewitched moon? Tattoo, though I could have made it myself. Wanted something more…permanent—for him.”

“Your father?” asked John. He could practically hear Sherlock’s eyes rolling beside him.

“Yeah. Some of his old friends say that my uncle Sirius had one of them on his arm. Always loved the idea as a child. So when I was old enough I got one. It follows the phases of the moon.”

“Figures as much,” mumbled Sherlock.

John cracked his knuckles, pulled out the closest chair to him, and sat down before saying, “Did you use the Metamorphmagus a lot as a child?”

“Not intentionally though, for a good few years,” responded Teddy. He’d set his parchment down on the table beside him. “My hair changed color before I could control it. It was connected to my emotions, but most of the time it was bright blue. Just like Lestrade’s, but a bit lighter. Eventually I grew into the Metamorphmagus and wanted something more practical—this being after I graduated—and Victoire liked the orange color. So I’ve kept it.”

“Why don’t your eyes change when you transform?” asked Sherlock.

“Dunno,” replied Teddy. “With the rarity of my kind I didn’t have really anyone to teach me how to control it, aside from a few accounts of my mother’s ability. So when I got here I made the library my home and read up on any book that could teach me more about myself. I’ve never come across a book that mentioned why my eyes stay the same.”

“So that’s to say that all Metamorphmagi keep their eye color when they shift?”

“For the ones I’ve witnessed, yeah. Not sure about the whole lot. But I think that’s how it is.”

“The parchment…” Sherlock cut in. His jaw jutted out for a brief second—irritated, again. “What’s the importance?”

Teddy’s lips pushed together before responding, “I’ve taken it upon myself to correspond with your brother.”

“About the Curse?” asked John. A rough exhale shot out of Sherlock’s nose to his right.

“Yes.”

“Continue,” said Sherlock sternly.

Teddy’s face pinched tight as he unfurled his scroll. “Dear Professor T. Lupin,” he began, “I’m glad my brother has felt comfortable enough with you to shed the light on this situation. It is a rare sight for him to open up as such. In response to your question, unfortunately there is no reversal of the curse from where we stand; in which what Sherlock has told you is correct. The curse may only be removed with the death of the caster, the death of the victims, or persuasion of the caster so as to remove it. Thank you for taking interest in our situation. Signed Mycroft Holmes, Ministry of Magic.”

“Does Mycroft know that’s it is Moriarty?” asked John. He whispered the name Moriarty as if Moriarty himself was walking past the Dark Arts classroom that very moment.

“Yes,” replied Sherlock. His hands steepled just beneath his chin. The room was sure to become silent any minute now—Sherlock’s thinking had that effect.

“Your brother seems to not care that his own parents are under the Imperius curse,” commented Teddy.

Sherlock’s eyes darted up to his professor. “He’s too busy with the Ministry. He never had a taking for them anyway…not unless Mother was baking her famous chocolate cake,” he seethed.

The only information John knew about Unforgiveable Curses came from Sherlock and very brief and regulated mentions in his textbooks. Unforgivable Curses were regarded as the cruelest acts of wizardry due to the lack of a reversal. The only way to subside them was to prevent them. In which was rare considering Albus’s father was the only wizard to have lived through the Killing Curse. The only other aspect that came to him offhandedly was the punishment—Azkaban for life, to whomever used any of the three forbidden spells.

Azkaban.

“What if we send him to Azkaban?” suggested John suddenly.

For a moment, all three of them looked around the room at each other, but Sherlock opened his mouth.

“That doesn’t solve the problem.”

John’s eyebrows furrowed.

“My parents are still cursed.”

“Unforgivable curses are deemed so highly because the use of them sends you to Azkaban. Legally, Sherlock, we have to.”

“We can’t. It doesn’t solve the problem. We’ll stick to persuasion for the time being.”

John spotted the remainder of a small frown on Teddy’s mouth.

Before they left, Teddy handed them Mycroft’s letter.

“Keep me updated, yeah?” he asked. Both John and Sherlock agreed and headed out the doors.

“John,” Sherlock said suddenly. They’d already downed two flights of stairs.

“What?”

“My wand.”

A smirk crept onto John’s thin lips. “Not until you eat a decent meal, you sod.”


	21. Year Five III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no real school experience without a school dance that doesn't match expectations.

John was with Mary when he first spotted Sherlock at the Yule ball. Sherlock hadn’t discussed going himself since that day in the library. John presumed that he’d just be uncomfortably tucked in a corner of the Astronomy tower for the night since Greg already asked Molly. But now, Sherlock Holmes stood at the top of the stairs just outside the Great Hall with an unfamiliar girl hooked around his elbow.

Right. The Beaxbaton.

She was stunning, although, not quite as stunning as Mary, but John had to admit it to himself that Sherlock had excellent taste in women. The Beauxbaton’s dark hair was coiled into a twist at the base of her neck and she wore a black dress, short in length—unlike every other girl attending the ball. It had long sleeves, the dress, and sheer black fabric that rose just up to her collarbones to frame her poise. Only her lips were red.

John glanced at Sherlock, whose eyes were locked onto Mary until he hooked onto John’s watch.

Sherlock was clad in simple, yet elegant, black dress robes. Though, John noticed quickly, he lacked any sort of tie, for his pristine, white shirt had the topmost button undone.

John almost had to stifle a good chuckle at this. It was rare to see Sherlock’s Slytherin tie anywhere but draped across Sherlock’s shoulders. And now, when it was even more proper to wear a tie he chose to forget about it entirely.

Sherlock and his date took the stairs slowly. John could almost feel the majority of the eyes in the room latch onto such a couple. Somehow, Sherlock and the Beauxbaton made a fitting pair. Reserved, yet not compromising.

John felt the icy feeling flood his veins again. He turned to Mary.

“Sherlock’s got a date,” John stated.

Mary’s eyebrows raised and she let a short huff escape her lips. “Almost thought he wouldn’t show ‘t’all.”

Mary was dressed in a light blue dress that evening, the same color of John’s bowtie. And like Irene’s it was long sleeved. But Mary’s was loose and flowing, rather than fitted. The fabric rippled down from the small of her waist to the ground. John couldn’t help but to feel warmth rising up to his ears every time he looked at her.

“And he’s with the Adler. Scandal of the French, or so I’ve heard,” Mary continued, her small hand slithering up to hook onto John’s arm. She rested her chin on his shoulder. “He really looks odd with someone like that.”

Sherlock and Irene arrived to them then. “John,” he nodded curtly, “Mary.”

“Good evening, Sherlock,” Mary said, curtseying herself. It was a small curtsey—just a quick swish of fabric.

Irene spoke next.

“What wonder it is to meet the two of you,” she said. John quickly noticed that her voice was rather British sounding, instead of French like the rest of the Beauxbatons. “Mr. Holmes here has told me a great deal about you both.” Irene smiled. And when she did her eyes crinkled faintly at the sides.

“Shall we go into the Great Hall?” Sherlock motioned with his free hand, eyes—as usual—still locked on John’s.

John nodded himself and Mary agreed cheerfully, and they entered with a handful of other elegantly dressed students.

•••

Recently, Sherlock Holmes was making poor decisions. And going to the ball and seeing John there with Mary was second to the top of this list. The first would to be to let his heart rule his head.

He could almost hear Mycroft now.

Don’t get attached, Sherlock.

He’d gotten attached. Which led him to counting the number of the crystals dangling off the chandelier while Irene sipped her masqueraded firewhiskey to his left.

The Great Hall glimmered with various silver sparkly objects. Which, in Sherlock’s head, was entirely pointless. The Winter Solstice ball itself was pointless. But his eyes continued to trail the garlands of icy mistletoe and ivy laced just underneath the starry black ceiling.

The House tables had snuck off somewhere during the day, for now smaller tables lit by lanterns were scattered about, each seating about a dozen people who were chatting energetically with one another.

Across the Hall, where the Gryffindor table generally stretched out, sat John. Unlike Sherlock and Irene, John sat with a full table, thus consisting of his rather imprudent date, the trio of bumbling Gryffindor boys, Molly Hooper, Sally Donovan, Potter’s cousin Rose, and surprisingly…Phillip Anderson. Molly Hooper clad herself that evening in an emerald gown with a deep sweetheart neckline that contrasted against the rich amber color of her hair. Her dress robes were nothing in comparison to her usual, frumpy uniform or faded jeans. Lovely, he thought.

“John continues to glance over here,” commented Irene.

“Why would you care?” Sherlock spat in return.

Potter apparently made a humorous comment then because everyone nearest to him laughed suddenly. Even Stamford’s Hufflepuff date with abusive parents (long sleeves for two weeks immediately following every school break) seemed to quietly laugh to her self. Sherlock huffed.

“Just trying to remind you. Mary looks lovely, by the way. She understands colors well.”

His sight darted back over to Mary and John. John’s arm curled behind the back of Mary’s chair. When Mary rested her head on John’s shoulder, he crooked his neck so he could kiss her hairline.

“It’s her house color,” Sherlock said.

Mary smiled. Her hand reached up to hook onto John’s.

“You aren’t required to wear your house colors to the ball, William.”

There was a faint glimmer in John’s eyes that Sherlock hadn’t noticed before. He couldn’t decide whether the sparkle was because of the thrill of the evening or simply the shiny décor.

“You do know what will happen, hmm?” Irene purred before she sipped at her firewhiskey. She placed down her glass and fidgeted with her thin, ruby bracelet. “Mary will die.”

“Everyone will,” Sherlock said. “It’s the circle of life.”

John’s lips pressed against Mary’s temple. Sherlock found it difficult to swallow.

Irene heaved dramatically and left her bracelet alone. “Care to dance?” she offered, thin eyebrows jumping up with the idea.

Sherlock’s head bowed to where Irene sat, one leg crossed sharply over the other. She’d put on too much perfumed. Her eye makeup was smudged on the left side underneath her bottom row of lashes.

Sherlock stood and held out his hand. Once she stood, he offered his arm. “Now we get to work.”

•••

As the evening progressed, John grew more animated. Although the band wasn’t the best, the food compensated. Especially when ordering off the silver-lined menus was as simple as saying the dish you pleased and it springing to life on your plate the moment the words left your lips. He did feel as though the idea of dancing was rather awkward at first—both ballroom and regular festivities—but after an hour trotted by, the thoughts had faded away and he relied on the feel of everything. It was all very nice.

Aside from the lack of Sherlock, that was.

He’d seen him with Irene from time to time. Either cutting through the couples on the ballroom floor before the rock band came out or chatting at their reserved table. The odd part was that Sherlock listened attentively when he spoke with Irene—laughed some, even, and made big gestures with his hands.

Which was usual for that fact that Sherlock never took pleasantly to most people, specifically the seductress of the French.

John’s hand clenched to a fist around the stem of his glass. After long exhale, he turned his attention to Mary, who was currently in the process of tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

•••

Midway through the evening, just as the crowd was beginning to wear out, John took a moment to himself and stepped outside into the Entrance Courtyard for a quick breath of fresh air.

He slumped down against one of the torch-lit walls and sat with his back pressed against the cool tile. The air had a bite to it—crisp and nearing another snowfall. If not for the torch somewhere above him, John would have been past freezing, but the torch gave him subtle heat and he wasn’t planning on staying out for long.

That is, until Sherlock popped his head out.

“Too overwhelming?” came the Slytherin’s deep, richly aged voice. His hands concealed themselves in his pockets and his expression remained relaxed.

“A bit, yeah. Lot going on in there. Fair amount of drama I’ve seen already,” replied John. One of his hands, now strewn chilly, ran over the length of his face.

Sherlock’s exhales created a thin spread of fog in front of his face when he spoke. “And all completely trivial, unbeknownst to most.”

John motioned next to him and a raised eyebrow. Once Sherlock was seated next to him and the small waves of heat were pooling off him and into John, he said, “Irene Adler, huh? Pretty impressive, I’d say. Heard she’s quite scandalous.”

“She has connections to Moriarty. It’s the only reason I’m here.”

“Oh,” John chuckled lightly, his eyes skimming over the courtyard, “so you didn’t come just to see a Hobgoblins tribute band?”

Sherlock’s slight smile radiated off him without needing to be seen. “Unfortunately, no.”

John sucked in a few more breaths of stale air before asking, “What led to Adler anyways?”

“She caught me off guard in the Owlery in the beginning of the term. Asked to go with me then. I declined…obviously…but she caught me again at a later time and mentioned Jim. She knew I couldn’t turn down such an offer,” said Sherlock. “Which was, on her part, incredibly cunning.”

“So you don’t fancy her in the slightest?”

“I don’t fancy women in the slightest, John.”

John turned to him. “Wait,” he said, “you’re gay?”

“It would appear so.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asked.

“You never asked.”

“Oh.”

The stars were bright that night. Up above to his left, closer to Sherlock, were three aligned stars. Orion. It was one of the few he could actually pick out without any help, though he assumed most people could, since it was a very recognizable constellation. Sherlock seemed to be looking at it too.

“Does anyone else know?” John asked after a few minutes.

Sherlock’s response mainly escaped his lips in a cloud of exhale, rather than his thick voice. “Molly.”

“So that’s why she went with Greg?”

“They’re better suited off, anyway.”

“You think?”

“Four weeks, I’d give it. Possibly three, but I haven’t thought too much into it.”

“Five galleons it’s two,” bet John.

“Three and a half. The game is on.”

•••

There was a noticeable shift in atmosphere as Sherlock and John reentered the shimmering Great Hall. No longer was the air cool and gusty against the back of their necks, now it sat stale and hot. But the dance-goers didn’t seem to notice this, for they had a few spiked drinks and were enjoying the half-arsed band on the make-shift stage.

Seeing as Irene was no where to be found, Sherlock followed at John’s heels as he made a bee-line towards Lestrade, Potter, and Stamford. They greeted both of them loudly.

“Taking the party outside, were you?” slurred Greg just before he took another sip of his spiked pumpkin juice. Mike laughed heartily at this. Albus only quietly snickered.

“Where’s Mary?” asked John. He and Sherlock both were far too sober to be at an occasion such as this.

“Off to the loo with Molly. Fixin’ makeup I ‘spose.” Greg wobbled as he tried to make his way to the dance floor, but Albus pulled him back and sat him in a chair.

“Are you positive?” asked John.

Sherlock supposed John felt as alone in sobriety as he felt himself.

“No,” answered Stamford for him.

Sherlock’s line of vision crossed with a Slytherin table seated a few brooms-length away John’s. He caught the unfortunate and rather seductive watch of Jim Moriarty’s. He looked away.

John began to walk towards the mass hoard of students edging towards the stage. “Coming?” he asked Sherlock.

“Where?”

“To find Mary.”

“I’ll just wait here,” Sherlock replied, “see if she comes back with Molly if the drunkens were correct.”

John’s reply was to be swallowed into the crowd.

Shortly after John disappeared, Molly walked to the table. “Sherlock!” she said. “I didn’t think you were going to come! You look dashing! Are you enjoying yourself?”

He put on a counterfeit smile. “Surprise,’ he said plainly. His eyes danced around the Hall. Moriarty was no where to be seen, but Irene took his place next to Sebastian. Rather close to him, Sherlock would say.

He focused again on Molly. “Where’s Mary? John’s out to find her.”

“She was in the lavatory with me, but she said she needed to reapply some powder. So I came back without her.”

Just as Molly finished, John returned to the table. “I can’t find her,” he explained.

“That’s because she’s in the loo,” said Molly.

John licked his lips. “Seems Bluebell was right.” He faced the sapphire-head. “How many pints do you suppose you’ve downed tonight there, Greg?”

“Oh, three hundred and four,” he joked. “One more and I beat my record.”

“Yours is only three hundred and five? Mine’s four hundred and twelve,” chuckled Stamford.

“Five hundred and thirty two,” said Potter. His cousin laughed at this.

When Mary hadn’t returned ten minutes later, John grew nervous.

“I’m going to find her.”

“What’s the significance?”

“She’s my girlfriend, Sherlock…for Merlin’s sake!”

“…So?”

“So are you coming or not?”

Sherlock huffed. “Fine.”

•••

“Hello?” John called out to the bathroom. Only a steady trickle of water responded.

“Hello?” he said again, louder this time, “Mary, are you in there?” Nothing but the water came as a reply.

Sherlock watched as John looked from the open doorway to him and then back at the doorway. “Might as well turn off the tap, hmm?” he said.

Sherlock nodded and followed as John entered the loo.

Once inside, Sherlock could feel the humidity from the hot water cling to his face. Only a few lights remained on—those being the ones by the toilets and the sinks. The moonlight trickled in through the stain glass windows too, highlighting the porcelain appliances and casting thick shadows in the corners of the round room.

Sherlock took a step forward. John had suddenly stopped in his tracks.

“What is it?” he asked.

Nothing seemed to be out of place. They were only a mere wands-length away from the tap. Sherlock huffed, annoyed, and walked around John to turn off the bath tap. But John continued to remain still.

Sherlock’s eyes rolled.

The bubbles spilled out of the bath, now that he looked at it. If he hadn’t had shut off the water it was soon to overflow. His eyes skimmed across the water. The last of the ripples spanned about the surface of the water, the steam was just finishing off escaping to the air, and Mary Morstan’s lifeless body sat bathing in the large pool.


	22. Year Five IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins to comprehend the events of the ball, more on the intentions behind it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** There are descriptions of a crime scene. Nothing is too gory, but if death and the likings (drowning/suicide) is triggering for you then I would warn you to skip until the first text breaker.

Mary looked far better alive in her blue gown than dead.

There was a pulse. His. Thick, heavy, throbbing in his ears. His eyes narrowed. His breath caught in his chest, caught in the ivy strewn, thorn wretched lungs of his.

Mary Morstan, John’s girlfriend, someone who Sherlock had known and talked to was dead in the bath.

He’d experienced death before. Bird skeletons outside the Manor. Old relatives he’d met once in his life. The chance every day of his parent’s own death.

But death had never skirted so close to him. Warning him. Tempting him.

He’d had emotions and moods and feelings stirred from this person, this dead person. Once living, once breathing…alive…laughing…kissing John, now dead.

Sure, Sherlock was envious of her—thought she wasn’t suited off right with John, but he’d never wished her away through these means. In all honesty, he would have done it cleaner—the break up, that is. Slip John a rumor of her dislike of him. Blow on the flames. Watch them grow.

This—this dead body was too messy.

His eyes caught onto John.

Sherlock had never seen John as weak as he saw him then.

John could hardly speak. “Mary,” he breathed. “Mary.” A cracked voice that time. “My Mary, my sweet Mary. Merlin, Mary, what have you done.” His arms swept into the water and hooked under hers, at her armpits. He sat her body up at the edge. His hands were wet, shaking. Swept soggy, short hairs behind her ear. Kissed her head. Jolty breaths, faulty lungs. Trembling. Excessive blinking. Tears mixed with water. Water everywhere. Pale. Pale light. Pale skin. Pale sobs. Sobs. Sobs and more, hysterical shrieks and wails. “She couldn’t have…she’s fine, she isn’t like that, isn’t like this.” Jagged breaths. Hot breaths, hot air. Condensation.

Sherlock dashed over to John, ripped off the cloak of his own dress robes, and flung it onto a nearby mirror. He yanked, hard, on John’s hands and brought them out of the water. Sherlock shoved John with all his body weight until John’s back compressed against a tile wall.

One hand took John’s pulse; the other swiped away the hair on his forehead. Both hands found their way to John’s jaw and his thumbs caressed slowly. “Breathe, John. In and out. In for four, out for four, in for four…” he commanded. John’s eyes rattled in their sockets, constantly skipping from Sherlock’s face to Mary somewhere behind him and to his left.

“John, focus on my words. In and out. Focus on the breathing. Deep breaths. Four seconds each way. You have to get carbon dioxide back in your blood or else you’re going to lose consciousness.”

John’s hands clenched onto Sherlock’s wrists. Still wet. Clamped. Tight. And his chest rattled from one extent to the other.

“It’s okay,” came Sherlock’s own, shaky, cracking voice. But it was there. There for John, nonetheless. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re all right. It’s going to be okay.”

“But Mary!” he whimpered.

“In and out,” Sherlock said once more.

They continued like this for a while—the half-strewn out breaths—until John regained proper bodily habits. Sherlock wiped off what was either sweat or bath water from John’s forehead and then reminded him a final time of proper breathing patterns before returning to the corpse.

He started with the basics.

Mary Morstan, fifth year Ravenclaw. Bright, young witch.

Suicide by mechanical asphyxia…or was it?

Everything about her—her dress, hair, skin—was damp aside from the back of her head. Weights draped around the course of her neck. The skin wasn’t pruned, wasn’t opaque.

Aside from being wet, Mary Morstans’ body showed no other signs of being drowned. In fact, she looked entirely healthy aside from the fact she was damp and dead.

There was only one thing that was known to leave no biological evidence…only one spell that could leave a body in a bath to decompose.

Avada Kedavra. The killing curse.

When Sherlock stood up and took a step back, a crumpling noise came out from under his soggy oxford. His hawk-like watch shot downwards.

There, underneath his shoe, was a small piece of parchment. He snatched it. Partially wet, but the ink wasn’t smeared.

A thick scrawl read:

_I will cendio the heart out of you._

“My Mary…” John whimpered. Sherlock pursed his lips. Lips. Lips.

He recalled red painted lips forecasting the events of the night.

Irene!

He dashed back over to John. Heat. Foggy. “John…John. We need to get back to the Great Hall. I can’t let you sit here by yourself.” Somehow, Sherlock managed to pull John’s limp body up into a standing position. Mary wasn’t the only wilting blond in the room.

Sherlock’s arm snaked around John’s torso. John’s head and sight locked onto Mary’s lifeless body, no matter if Sherlock forced him forward. “We have to go. You’ll go mad alone with her like this.” Lugged feet. Wet tiles. Slippery. It took concentration to get them both out without falling.

Falling would be so easy.

But he made it, with John. John made it. And then they were in the dim-lit hallway and the sound of dripping water wasn’t accompanying his pulse anymore.

John grew stubborn and stiffened. “Sher-Sh-…I need to be with her,” he managed. His teeth were chattering.

“I know you do. But I need you hear with me. I don’t need you to do anything drastic right now,” Sherlock said. “We’ve already got ourselves enough drastic for the night.”

More footsteps. Anchor. John.

He looked back. John’s eyes were fragile. Wet glass. Any movement could crack them. “Sherlock,” he said—his voice broken, pleading.

Sherlock’s grip became tighter. “I’m sorry.” Steps. John’s steps, too. Reluctant. “I have to do this.”

The steps continued. Wet footprints trailing from the girl’s lavatory on the chalky, cobblestone flooring. The noise grew with each pace. Nearing life, nearing voices. Laughing. Music. Nothing like the steady drumming of his pulse in his head—nothing like the lack of a steady pulse in Mary’s head.

Red. Not Irene red, but red..ginger. Teddy.

“Teddy!”

A quick turn. Sudden wash of panic.

“What is it?”

“M-Mary…” John began.

“She’s dead, Teddy. Mary’s dead in the lavatory and someone killed her,” Sherlock finished.

A transfer of hands. Mixed expressions. “Take him, will you? Don’t let him go back. Take him to the Flat. It’s the best place.” Instructions. And Teddy listened just so.

Once Professor Lupin was leading John out of sight, Sherlock dashed into the Great Hall. Warm lights, flashes of color. Sweat. Pheromones. Red. Red. Red! Irene!

In the corner with some form of a Hufflepuff twisted around her. Sherlock peeled off the badger and ignored the irritated slander.

“Looks like you found the surprise.” Fixed the line of her lipstick. “…Surprise,” she purred, popping the ‘P’.

“You warned me and I didn’t even care to notice. You told me Mary was going to die, didn’t you?”

“I do have my connections.” A restrained smirk. “And my connections wanted your limits tested…which they were. You’re attached, William, and it’s showing.”

“You’re despicable,” Sherlock spat.

The dungeons were a good length away. He sprinted.

If he thought the echo of his pulse was persistent before, he was wrong. The drum in his head quickened with every step. Step, beat, step, beat, step, beat-beat, step—and so it went.

In all honesty, Sherlock hadn’t been to the Slytherin dorms more than three times that year. And all three times were to give John space, or to get away from John. He didn’t even unpack his case there. He went straight to the Flat before the Opening Ceremony—and most importantly, before the house elves could do it for him and spot all the contraband he managed to bring in.

The air was cool when he stepped in. Someone had the fire going…a witch, to be exact, who was curled up in an armchair with some sort of leather-bound book in her lap.

Focus.

Steps. Flights of steps. Corridor. Organized by last name. Jefferson, Kerkman, Malfoy, Moriarty…Moriarty!

He kicked the door open. Four beds positioned themselves around a babbling fountain. Green bedding, dark wooden bed posts…and no one to be found.

Sherlock’s eyes shot around. Scarves, parcels, candies, quills, shoe polish, and books upon books. The room was chaotic—aside from one bed. One bed that only offered a piece of parchment. Like a silver platter…or more of an emerald one, to be exact.

He snatched it.

_Miss me?_

•••

John had slowly decayed alive while Sherlock left his side.

When Sherlock finally made his way back to the Flat after the extensive night, John was there. And so was Teddy.

John was seated on the couch, the fire in front of him licking yellow shadows up his neck and cheekbones, making his tee shirt illuminate. In John’s hands he nursed a cuppa, and his hair was ruffled.

And his eyes. His eyes were drained of life.

Teddy sat opposite of him on the coffee table with his wand balanced on one of his knees. His bowtie was undone and hanging around his shoulders, the cloak of his dress robes discarded on John’s work stool.

Only Teddy glanced his ways when the doors shut.

Sherlock ran a hand through his curls and unbuttoned his sleeves. He pushed them up to his elbows and made a slow trail to the couch. The Slytherin seated himself on the armrest, after kicking off his shoes. His toes were in danger of nudging John’s thigh, but there were more important topics of thought.

Like Mary Morstan’s dead body.

“What do we do?” he asked.

Teddy’s lips pressed into a line. He frowned. “I notified McGonagall. She said she’d take it from there.”

John’s eyes didn’t move from the fire.

“How’s he been managing?”

“Not well. I was able to convince him into changing into something more comfortable. Got him tea. Sat him down. That’s as far as we’ve accomplished,” Teddy said.

Although he was never fond of Mary, Sherlock was fond of John, and looking at John now made Sherlock’s stomach sour.

“John?” Sherlock prodded. He didn’t want to push any boundaries, but wanted to see where the boundaries lie.

Nothing. No movement. Just a blink of golden lashes.

Sherlock slid down to the couch cushion and tucked his legs into his chest so he wasn’t touching John. He bit at his lips. “Is he going to be okay?” Sherlock asked.

Teddy sucked in a long breath through his nostrils and let it escape through his lips. “I think so. It’s just going to take time.”

•••

Sherlock sat in front of John in the Great Hall. They were the only ones to inhabit the grand room.

All the students were home for break or in their common rooms. But it broke John’s heart too much to go home and see his smiling parents. So Sherlock stayed with him.

Sherlock would always stay beside John.

John pushed around some form of food that was once edible but had since turned into mush. He sighed.

“Where’s she being buried?” asked Sherlock.

John’s eyes continue to latch onto his mush. “Family plot.” He took a few breaths. The mush traveled furthered across his plate. “I don’t think the memorial did her justice,” he said. His voice was faint.

“I don’t suppose anything would do her justice, John.”

John took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and turned his head to the front of the Great Hall to the faculty table—the vacant faculty table.

“I’m not going to lie and tell you that this won’t be hard. That would be rather cruel and I’m not for adding more cruel things to your life,” Sherlock said. “But I will tell you one thing I’m certain will aid: Time. Bitter as it may be, time will help.

“I’m sure of it.”

John’s eyes found Sherlock’s. “I don’t want time right now, Sherlock, I want Mary.”


	23. Year Five V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John grieves, Sherlock grieves over John's grieving, and they try not to drown.

There was a light. Streaming through one of the dozen windows previewing the Black Lake.

And there was a sound. But the sound was artificial, unlike the sun. His violin—tender and rich and glossing evenly over the Flat.

And there was John. Huddled upon the bed with a blanket around his shoulders and Mary’s note in his trembling hands.

In the corner of the room Gladstone batted around a piece of crumpled parchment—Sherlock’s discarded potions essay. He’d started over an hour ago, finished, and began composing a different piece of writing. Fingertip writing. Much more fluid than a potions’ essay.

John looked up from the note. Sherlock could see him from the corner of his eyes. He swallowed and then spoke.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to manage going back to Hogsmeade without being shaken up.” He looked back down at the parchment.

Sherlock dragged out his G-sharp, plucked an off chord, and then set his violin down next to the simmering cauldron.

“It was the beginning of our relationship,” John said.

“Hmm?”

“The note.”

Sherlock digested the room in a handful of strides. Wasn’t that the ‘suicide’ note? He held out his hand when he was adjacent to John’s bed. “May I?” he asked.

John handed him the note.

Purple ink, left handed, and apparently a fondness of sugar quills.

In an instant, he was across the room. “Where are you taking it?” called John, a particular whine to his voice.

“Here.” Sherlock crouched down, nudged Gladstone aside, and tossed John the crumpled paper. “This can take its place.”

•••

When Sherlock walked into the Flat a mere two hours later, bearing the gifts of roast chicken, potatoes, and pumpkin juice, he discovered John on his bed.

Granted, this wasn’t an unusual sight. People sit on their beds all the time.

It was that John hadn’t moved since he left that stopped Sherlock physically.

He took careful steps and avoided the creaky floorboards to reach John. “Have you gotten up to piss at least?”

John’s eyes didn’t slide up to look at Sherlock. They remained sewn into the comforter of his bed. So he placed the plate of food directly where John’s eyes stitched. When John’s eyes remained focused on the single spot they inhabited, Sherlock put his juice on the nightstand and moved the plate along with it. He nudged his unbuttoned shirtsleeves up above is elbows and stared down to John with his “hawk like watch that you do to try to look cool”. But if Sherlock could look at himself now like he was a doll in some manifested room with wallpaper too purple for anyone’s taste, he’d have to differ with John. Because inside he felt hollow, his chest warm and throbbing as his breath hitched. No hawk could feel so much from a lion. The natural world doesn’t work like such.

Through all the compassion he could possibly accio to the surface, Sherlock said John’s name. He kept his voice soft and pleading. Sherlock couldn’t stand looking down at John like this.

But John didn’t respond. His eyes remained fasted onto the comforter of his bed.

Accordingly, Sherlock sat down next to John, one foot tucked under his bum wile the other dangled off the mattress. Even the air around John was stale.

“John,” he said once more.

Sherlock caught his breath in hopes of John saying something. After he realized nothing would follow, he let his eyes wander around the room. The sunlight peaked out from behind the clouds and washed itself into the small crevices of the room—onto the side of Sherlock’s cauldron, the front of John’s chair, the back of Sherlock’s, and even on the portraits the Flat had acquired of both their families that crawled up the walls. With every breath Sherlock took, he could almost smell the sunlight. Sunlight in the Flat smelled like the binding of an old book, his sheets, and his mother’s French cooking. Sherlock squeezed the flat edge of his bottom lip along the skin by his thumbnail.

“John,” he tried again.

Silence.

Well, silence aside from the gentle noise coming from Gladstone’s chest across the room and the occasional simmer from the stewing lacewing flies.

He pressed his palms onto his knees and lined each vertebrae on top of one another as if each were drifting stairs piled up along his back.

“John.”

John inhaled, which was enough for Sherlock.

“I can’t bring her back. I’m sorry. I’d go to the ends of Merlin’s brain to get her, but I can’t and I feel useless. You don’t deserve this. You’ve been nothing but a supportive friend and a good person. I wish I could fix it for you—”

“Where’s the note?” said John. His voice was raw. He didn’t look up.

Sherlock’s hands slipped into his pocket and tugged out the folded piece of parchment. He handed it to John who cupped it in his palms upon receiving it.

His words sounded like powdered phoenix egg simmering in his cauldron—thick and unsettling. “I have something to tell you.”

“Don’t,” said John.

“Don’t what?” His eyebrows jammed into themselves, meeting at the pale spot just above his nose. Sherlock could feel the bridge of his nose crinkle, too.

John glanced up and the glass focus of his was back on Sherlock. The Slytherin fogged at the edges inside of himself just as the glass did in the Prefect’s bathroom on cold, winter mornings when he crept in illicitly to be alone.

“I’ve a weird feeling you’re going to tell me something I don’t want to hear.”

“It’s a decent bet,” he said to John, his own eyes rationing up enough courage to meet the Gryffindor’s.

John looked down at the note pressed delicately inside his hands, held delicately. His eyes focused on where the parchment bent in on itself—where Mary, John’s Mary—had once folded it. His eyes slowly met Sherlock again.

“I don’t know what to think,” came his soft words. Perhaps the note wasn’t the only delicate thing pressing between the two boys now.

Sherlock slowly inhaled and ran his fingers around the curve of his own cheek and then down the back of his neck. “Then don’t,” he said. He wanted more than anything to reach out and let his hands trail down the length of John’s face, to pull him into his arms and protect him within his fortress. But this was John. And John was straight. And straight John just had his girlfriend killed by Moriarty.

“I can’t just not think, Sherlock.”

“Why is that?”

“People always think. It’s a conscious train of thought that never stops.”

“You can divert it or slow it down,” Sherlock said. “It’s why your sister’s glued to the telly at home. She’s attempting to escape the troubles of her abusive girlfriend. Most people do it, so it’s not as uncommon as you may reason. I do it.”

“You watch the telly?”

“I turn my brain off. There’s no good in an overworked head.”

A light went off in the back of his mind and it continued flashing at rapid intervals until Sherlock dashed across the flat—careful not to trip on the upturned rug corner—and snatched Unforgiveable Curses and Unfortunate Endings. He placed it on John’s lap once he’d returned to his spot next to his Gryffindor mate.

“I read this,” Sherlock explained.

“You read this? To stop thinking? I thought you read it for your parents’ sake,” said John.

“I already know everything in it—memorized it ages ago. It allows me to go through the action and clear my head, considering I know every word that is about to follow the one I’m on. And the violin. Focus on something else pauses the unwanted thoughts.”

John studied the book in his hands. He ran his palms over the worn edges and smoothed back a wrinkled page. “So that’s why you’ve yet to return it?” he asked.

“Precisely.”

A smile crept onto John’s lips and it gleamed at Sherlock as if to say ‘I know it will be rough, but I think in the end I’ll manage. Thank you’.

“You need rest,” Sherlock decided on replying, “You’ve barely gotten any sleep in the last few nights. It’s not good for you health wise and it’s most certainly not good for your head.”

“Sherlock,” John said suddenly.

“Yes?”

“You went a week without sleep in third year.”

“My girlfriend didn’t just die, John,” Sherlock cut back.

“Your girlfriend doesn’t exist,” John teased, “you’re into blokes.”

When a smile reached onto the corner of Sherlock’s lips and flipped them upward, John mirrored the action.

“Sleep,” Sherlock said after the laughter had faded into weak smiles, “For the sake of Merlin’s ill-fitted pants.”

John shook his head with some form of a smile still ghosting his lips and clasped the book to his chest. As Sherlock had requested, he pulled back the covers on his bed and slid into the sheets. Sherlock charmed the food he brought up with a preserving spell and found his way to his violin after meddling with his lacewing flies.

And as John drifted off to the sound of a composition dedicated to him, Sherlock caught sight of Unforgivable Curses and Unfortunate Endings entwined within John’s arms.

It was the closest he’d ever have to falling asleep with John now.

•••

John slept for seven hours in the evening before he began talking.

“Mary…Mary, Mary, Mary,” he mumbled into his pillow, “Mary come back, Mary don’t go in there, don’t go. Stay with me, Mary. Merlin, Mary, come back.”

From where Sherlock was sat, reading over his potions essay, he glanced up. There he slept, stomach pressed into the bed, hands balled up into fists, Unforgivable Curses and Unfortunate Endings discarded near his head. His hair swept off his skull in unsymmetrical places as if an eastern wind had curled its fingers in it. “Mary,” he wept.

Sherlock pressed his fingers onto the edges of his paper and rolled it up to the line he was on. He set it on the couch cushion adjacent to him, next to where Gladstone lay awaiting the spirals of his fingertips to once again bury in her fur. She looked up at him, eyes as big as the moon, which winked at him from outside the window. Her mouth opened before he shot her a pointed look and she stopped. He sucked in a deep breath and pushed himself off the couch.

“The water’s not good for you, Mary. You don’t need it right now,” said John as Sherlock tiptoed his way up to the platform where John’s bed sat. “No, no. Mary, no. Please.” Sherlock sat down on the side that John had sprawled out onto and laced his fingers around the book. “No, you can’t. That’s not how it works. No. Please stay.” He moved the book to the nightstand.

John’s face scrunched together, a thick canyon carving its travels along the pale spot above John’s eyebrows. The angle of his jaw was tense and accentuated. His shoulders pulled taut, creating a mountainside with sharp edges and twists and turns along his back. “Mary, you belong with me,” he said.

Sherlock’s inhale caught in his chest. He had to bite down on his tongue until the coppery taste threatened to spill over into the small cracks in between his teeth. _No, John. You belong with me._ Sherlock closed his eyes and sucked in a few, ash scented breaths. He opened his eyes again.

There was John, John trudging through a nightmare, battling his new and improved boggart, playing the role of the knight in his own war. There was John braving a wicked storm, feet planted and rooted into the ground as he stretched out his arms and challenged the world because he knew he was stronger. He knew, because every blood cell, every follicle told him he was resilient. There was John, bearing the weight of a nightmare he could never wake up from.

And there was Sherlock, the observant echo of time, watching the waters crash up against John’s body as they threatened to corrode him. But each time the salty, stinging, itching waters came John stepped into his role, stepped into Prometheus, and watched his soul washed out of him as the waves roared at him.

Sherlock reached out, fingertips aching and cold, and smoothened out the mountains on John’s back. He felt the rub of cotton imprint into his skin until Prometheus’s breathing stirred. As John rolled over and sat up, Sherlock clasped his hand back into his lap. It had never happened. 

When John’s eyes found him, still a bit foggy from the constant rush of water pounding at his skin, Sherlock felt it. Felt the sting, the heavy armor, the faint words of ‘Riddikulus’ pounding in his veins. He felt the hollowness of his chest as the waters rushed in and filled into every crevasse, felt the chains heavy and tense against his arms, extending his limbs along the stone.

The slice of John that didn’t quite match the Greek tragedy was his eyes. And his eyes filled to the brim with the same salt water that bleached him through. It tipped out, tracing little rivers down the length of his cheek. He shivered. John’s body was unable to deal with his eternal punishment—unable to root into the ground and bear his boggart.

As the rivers continued down his skin and onto his ruddy old Gryffindor jumper, he shuffled over and encompassed John into his arms.

He heard a quiet sigh slip from John’s lips and then Prometheus’s arms coiled around Sherlock’s back. John's chin pressed into his shoulder, legs tangled with another pair. Soon, the rivers would find their way onto Sherlock’s own, smoothened mountain, rushing down the cliffs and into the banks. But for now he focused on his breathing, John’s breathing, and his hands rubbing John’s back in rhythmic movements.

John’s hand clasped onto the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I need her, Sherlock,” he wept, “I need her to come back.”

Sherlock’s response was muffled into the warm shallows of John’s neck. “I know,” he said, “I know. I don’t know how to fix this, John. I’m sorry.”

John’s chest shuddered when it heaved in breaths. Each movement reverberated within the enclosure of Sherlock’s arms, locked around John’s chest so tightly that his fingertips could hook onto the other side of John’s ribcage. He wasn’t alone, though, because John’s hand gripped onto Sherlock’s back, trembling and clinging on with all the life left in him. The chains were loosening.

Something residing in Sherlock’s chest swelled. He supposed it to be some of his own salt water, gurgling and sloshing and making him dizzy. But perhaps it was John’s scent that made him dizzy. The sunlight smell enveloped John. Sunlight, tea, earth, and sand. Slight perspiration and ink, too. And wool.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

Perhaps if John was Prometheus, Sherlock was the rock he was chained eternally to.

As they sat there, holding onto each other as if the world would end if they stopped, Sherlock believed he could hear the rush of waves overhead.

“I’m sorry.”

•••

For the third time in their lives, they shared the bed together and slept soundly.

•••

The nightmares did not come. They did not plague John’s mind.

•••

In the morning when he stirred, the Flat had put the fire on because it was winter and it was cold. Gladstone slept in front of it, back facing the golden tendrils, chest rising and falling like the huffs of winter wind just outside their walls. The air smelled like toast. And honey. And the sounds of Sherlock’s violin coming from the corner of the room tasted like chocolate—rich, warm, and ever-so pleasurable to savor.

John crept out of bed and into the loo without a word shared. After relieving himself, he took a rag, wet it, and ran it over his face. The cold water washed away the dried salt. He placed the rag back down on the edge of the sink and went once again into the chocolate sounds.

Sherlock’s eyes focused on his fingers. John made note of this as he snatched Unforgivable Curses and Unfortunate Endings from the nightstand and journeyed to his armchair. Sherlock did not acknowledge that he was awake. No, it was just fingertips and steel core strings, as he made notably clear.

He settled in to his worn, purple chair. He opened the book. He focused on the first word, then the second, the third, forth. He did not think. He read.

And Sherlock played.


	24. Year Five VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of winter break slithers by with a visit from Mycroft.

At ten to noon they ventured out of the comfort of the Flat and made their way outside. The fresh air would be good for their minds, they’d agreed—good for stopping the thoughts.

Their holiday so far was a simple one, which included tea, reading, and more tea. Not much talking.

Granted, silence between them wasn’t anything new. John had learnt awhile back that when you live with someone you don’t always have to be doing something exceptional with him or her. Sometimes you can just sit. Sitting was fine.

He wasn’t living with Sherlock exactly. But for the sake of language he could say he was. They shared a flat together, shared a room through the summer, and ate (generally) two of the three meals together. Though, eat was also use of language liberty. Sherlock may be sitting next to him while they listened to Albus discuss the importance of the Pixie Revolution, but he may not be eating while listening. John generally took upon that role. He was, however, convincing Sherlock to eat more and more, which in itself was good.

Not many things were good lately.

Death was a raw word—stripped, bare, vulnerable. No one dared to mention it, but everybody was dying to discuss it at conversational lengths that spanned a circumnavigated trip on a sailboat.

They especially did not mention it when some one had died.

But Sherlock did. And John appreciated him for that.

•••

Sherlock saw everything.

He saw the Gryffindor Common Room, with its passionate hues and warm fabrics. He saw Teddy, sat uncomfortable in the fraying armchair, feet planted into the ground like Thestral hooves. He saw Mycroft, sat across from Teddy in an opposing armchair, one leg hooked over the other with his umbrella resting against the arm. And he saw John, stretched out on the couch beside him, his knees pressed up to his chest and his back against the arm of the couch.

But seeing was one thing.

It was the importance behind seeing which he fed on—the science, the deduction, the undiscovered truth.

And the truth was, there was so much truth in that room right then that Sherlock found it difficult to breathe, but he ignored it. He continued on with the deductions.

They went around in a circle, Teddy first. Sherlock noted his clenched teeth by the way his cheek indented on the side Mycroft could not see. His hands lay flat atop his kneecaps and his inhales were more frequent than any other day. So he was nervous. Nervous about what? What was the independent factor? The only difference in that day compared to any other was Mycroft. Mycroft triggered him. Mycroft, power, made Teddy shudder. And yet he braved through it, but why? Why? Because of him. He and John. Teddy thought of himself as their older brother, and now with Sherlock’s actual brother there, Teddy flinched. He was there when Mycroft was not and Teddy prided himself on that, but when it was time to face reality he flickered.

“His grades are fine, I assure you,” said Teddy. “From what I can see, he does excellently. I can’t…obviously…say the same for any of his other classes because I do not teach his other classes, but he—and John—excel in Defense. They’re my best students.” His words only elevated the truth Sherlock drew out of him.

Mycroft’s truth was next to fall under his lens. Though, he had to admit, Mycroft presented a challenge. Mycroft taught him truth finding. Mycroft was aware that Sherlock would try to deduce him and because of that, he put up walls. Sherlock Walls, a No Brother Zone. But Sherlock still attempted because there was no fun in letting something be.

Mycroft’s eyebrows seemed to not be affected by gravity whatsoever. “He has the potential for greatness, though he allows it to rot. I’ve never quite understood why he was placed in Slytherin,” said Mycroft.

For all the intelligence he tried to put out, Mycroft was daft. He loved too much, felt too strongly. Sherlock knew this from the way they were both raised. Though Mycroft made it seem that he did not care that his family was cursed, Sherlock could see it. There were his pursed lips, his own hawk-like stare, and his clenched hand around the stem of his umbrella cane. Sherlock could only guess how terrified the thought of Jim Moriarty made him. A sixteen-year-old putting the parents of a ministry worker under his control? And maintaining that control since he was twelve? Mycroft had to feel hopeless. Contradicting everything else he put out, Mycroft was human. Once Sherlock realized this of himself, he could finally see it of his own flesh and blood.

“My potential is still growing, mind you,” Sherlock spat, “Applying it towards school is the way to expire it.

And then there was John. “Right, he uses it to insult students. Which isn’t a horrible sight, really. Given me a few laughs at least.”

John was still broken, still crawling into Sherlock’s bed at night so he could scrape together a few hours of sleep. For as miserable it made Sherlock to watch this, he could not grasp how miserable John felt. He tried to comprehend it, but there was a point when John’s chin dug into Sherlock’s shoulder where he embraced it—embraced the unknown and promised to dive deeper into John’s pain. The rock would not move under Prometheus’s broken silhouette. The rock would stay and the water would move over them both.

They were all there for one cause.

And that cause was about to break John’s back.

“John? There’s something we need to have you know,” said Teddy. He leaned forward, closer to John.

Mycroft stepped in. “Moriarty has taken an advance which was further than we’d assumed he’d take at this age.”

It was Sherlock next. He couldn’t bear to look John in the eyes when he said it. But he turned to him, nevertheless, took a deep breath, and spoke to the wall behind John’s head. “Moriarty is the reason Mary died. She didn’t try to kill herself. That was what he meant for everyone to believe, but it is not the truth.”

He did not look down. He could not live with being the reason John hurt so much. Moriarty had aimed at Sherlock. He killed Mary to hurt John. John was his heart. All of Sherlock’s veins traversed through his body and ended up in John.

Moriarty knew this.

Sherlock felt a shift of emotion in the room. He did not look down. He was sure that if he glanced at his two brothers that they’d be looking away as well.

Pain was a very isolated thing. Pain was endured through large doses in solitude. Sherlock could not fathom how much John was enduring at that moment.

“The truth, John, is that Mary was working for Moriarty. But when she crossed borders and disobeyed his rule, he disposed of her. She did not listen and she formed an emotional attachment to you, so he killed her.

“He had her forge the letters to me. Her script is the same in them as in her notes to you. Once he knew you were something I held value in, he found a new play to move Mary into. So he had her chase you, but when she fell, he killed her.”

He swallowed. He’d known all along. Mary loved John. It was the reason of her death.

But Mary had not loved John like Sherlock had loved John.

Her love for him had been brief. It would never amount to the love Sherlock had for him all those years—a love that was squandered, a love that grew and evolved, a love that went untouched.

Her small boat of love could never withstand the whitecaps of Sherlock’s ocean, and yet hers was more renowned and renewed. She received recognition when Sherlock did not.

“When Moriarty knew she loved you, he had her killed.”

It stung. That was the truth.

When he finally looked at John, he was taken aback.

There was John, so strong and brave. John, the courageous lion that withstood every challenge he faced, sat with his eyes locked on Sherlock’s. But he was not looking at Sherlock. He was far off from the ratty cushion in the Gryffindor common room. He was not in Hogwarts, not in the hills of Scotland, not in that world, that plane, that dimension. John was gone.

•••

“Where’s John?” asked Teddy, his back facing Sherlock.

“Flat. Mycroft’s keeping watch of him,” replied Sherlock, “but John’s not the reason I’ve come here.” His face scrunched up. “Well, indirectly at least.”

Teddy’s head swiveled to where Sherlock stood, Sherlock’s hands braced against the rim of Lupin’s desk. Teddy raised an eyebrow and looked back at the bookshelf he was inspecting.

“Hmm?”

“I’m in need of a bicorn horn. For a potion,” Sherlock said.

“Polyjuice?” Teddy asked.

“I’m in the last stages and I can’t seem to get my hands on one. Every one of my usual underground connections is out. I was wondering if by any means you had one.”

Teddy turned around on his heels, a book open in one of his hands. “You’re brewing polyjuice so John doesn’t have to go to class, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

He shut the book, placed it on his desk behind Sherlock, and dashed out of his office. Sherlock followed him to a shadowy portion of the defense classroom. He heard a hinge unhook and soon Teddy was presenting him with a single curled horn. Duality.

“They’re out of shedding season. This is the last you have,” he said.

“Shedding season will return soon enough. John’s comfort is far more important than a horn of some cow-beast.” He smiled. “You’re a good mate, Sherlock.”

•••

“I have my best men tracking his location. They should find it within days if he stays put,” said Mycroft. “You’ll update me if anything were to happen on your end?”

“Obviously. Check in on Mummy and Father, will you? Make sure they’re not completely comatose?” he said.

“I will. Please give John my regards. Take caution and be safe. Eat, Sherlock.”

And with one step into the fireplace, Mycroft was gone.

•••

The polyjuice potion was finished the day after Mycroft went back to the Ministry—one day before school resumed.

They students would forget about the occurrence when they returned, but John would gnaw at their expressions within his own head. And he would hurt. Because she only resided in his mind now. They had moved on.

John had not.

John was still fractured, still angry and going through all the stages of grief twice-fold, still stumbling to Sherlock’s bed at night after staring out the window for two hours with a blank watch.

Sherlock did not protest when John found him at night. He knew it was wrong and he knew John did not have the same thoughts when he arrived, but the words never found the way out of his mouth. So he allowed it, ignoring the fact that John had acquired insomnia due to his girlfriend being murdered.

Because that was all it was. And all it’d ever be.

They spent their last day in bouts of solemn silence.

He didn’t deny that they talked, but it was brief. Most of their communication was sent across the room in upturned smirks or scribbles in enchanted parchment.

Sherlock was becoming an expert in the language of John. If he had to guess, John had majored in Sherlock the day after the first train ride. Or so it seemed.

From the other side of the aisle, John turned his page and cleared his throat. Books were a common companion now. Anything with words: old charm scrolls, Sherlock’s scribbles on Gladstone’s activities, Hogwarts: A History.

He glanced up, noticed Sherlock scrutinizing his breathing pattern, scrunched up his eyebrows. His shoulders enveloped in on himself. Rubbed at his left eye with his knuckles. Went back to work on what apparently was a novel on the encrypted studies of troll decomposition, from the looks of the binding and excessive amount of dust that sputtered up into John’s face when he turned the page.

Sherlock, however, rooted through something less tangible.

He was in the depths of his mind palace, only to come out the front doors to observe John or the empty library. Then he would retreat. Back to the Manor. Back to his old room. Back to his parents.

But it was brief. Because although his mind palace was real, his parents no longer acted like that. They were cruel and cold and could not care if their son was swimming deeper and deeper towards his best friend. They did not care that there was a murderer who kept Sherlock’s face as a target. They did not care.

Or, perhaps, they did. They just couldn’t show it. They were frozen in time, a time back when Sherlock was twelve.

Now he was fifteen. Sixteen in a handful of days—sometime that following week. He didn’t care to count out the specifics.


	25. Year Five VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two wolves get drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three days ago marks the second anniversary of when I started to write this fic. Thank you al for staying with me for two years and checking for updates, it means a great deal to me.
> 
> Also, sorry for the short chapter. It's just the way it was bunched off in the plotline.

Sherlock used the potion the second day back. John was exhausted from the previous day’s work and needed the day to rest, so he used it. He flicked the vile upwards and downed the contents.

Living as John was something he was not accustomed to. Living as anyone but himself was something he was not accustomed to.

But he did it. And he fumbled through the day as best as he could, using the same mannerisms John had acquired throughout the years. And he managed—he managed for John.

•••

John promised himself one thing: He would never let Moriarty harm anything ever again.

He was certain of this. So he practiced.

Everyday at half-past noon—the time he and Mary once spent in the library together—John traveled down to a series of underground chambers and began. He perfected spells Teddy had taught him. Reflecting curses, protection charms, even his patronus. He went over it all. Moriarty would never ruin anything again—not if John was alive.

This would continue for an hour each day. He did not take off the weekends. He did not surrender.

It was the same. Everyday once he finished lunch and fled down the many flights of moving stairs, John set up. He moved the spell dummies in place, _colloportus’d_ the doors, and focused. He began with the basics. He recalled general spells he’d been taught from his first year to his fifth. And when he mastered those, he spoke to Teddy and visited the Restricted Section.

It was the same. That is, until his patronus changed.

It sputtered out of his wand in fragments, pieced together only after the thin veil of silver floated into the air. And rather the roaring, it howled.

John’s expression was blank. So was the glistening wolf’s staring back at him. It vanished when John lost complete concentration.

He took a step back and found that his frame had struck a wall. He let himself sink down to the floor, the back of his uniform jumper snagging on the cobblestone bricks. Could patroni even change? Could they develop while the caster developed?

Only Teddy would know. 

So he went to Teddy. Tried to keep his pace casual on the walk up but nevertheless found himself in some sort of uncomfortable jog as he passed by the portraits. When he caught Teddy leaving the Defense room, he was sweating (whether this was from the jog or the change of patronus, John did not know).

“John! How are you doing?”

John let no time waste. “My patronus changed,” he said.

Teddy shuffled with the stack of scrolls he was carrying. One fell out of his grasp and slipped onto the ground. John picked it up. “Your patronus changed?” Teddy said.  
“Yeah. It’s a wolf now. What does that mean?”

“Sherlock’s is a wolf.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t matter though. _Can_ patroni change? Is that normal? Is it because of what happened?”

Teddy motioned for John to come follow him back inside. While the professor placed the scrolls onto a desk, John wiped the back of his hands across his forehead. He took a deep breath.

“It’s not uncommon, no,” Teddy said. His hands traced his jawline and then settled into his front pockets. “It happens sometimes. Usually when it changes like that it means you have changed as a person.”

“So Mary’s leaving is what changed it?” he asked.

“Well, Sherlock’s patronus is a wolf, right?”

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with anything?”

Teddy took a deep breath and said, “Listen, I know this is going to sound funny and you’re going to think I’m daft for saying it, but Patroni usually change if the caster falls in love.” Teddy frowned. The air between them grew stale.

“Are you saying that I love Sherlock?”

“I’m saying that’s a good possibility.”

He took a moment. He needed an eternity.

“A-Are you positive? I’m sure it’s just because of Mary. Teddy, my _girlfriend_ died. That’s a fairly important event. Wouldn’t that shape me as a person and shape my patronus?”

He recollected the scrolls and made his way back to the door. “Just think about it, John. Find me tonight if you still need to talk about it. McGonagall asked to see me, okay? Just think about it.”

•••

He did not think about what Teddy said. Not when Sherlock managed to smuggle in firewhiskey from one of his connections. Not when Sherlock said it was for “The rough winter we’ve been experiencing”. Not when they tossed back their glasses, not when the bottle was half empty. He especially didn’t think about it when his arms felt tingly and his chest warmed into a pile of smoke. Or at least that’s what he envisioned, as he looked at Sherlock from across the coffee table.

They sat cross-legged on either side, the fire on John’s back only adding to the heat he felt inside. Somewhere in him, there was a steady trickle of adrenaline threatening to fill him up with more courage than he needed at that hour, but the thought slipped. Instead, his vision was filled with Sherlock’s eyes—Multiple pairs, swirling and blinking and squinting.

And as for Sherlock, he seemed to have a knack for narrating when he was drunk.

“It is an embarrassing sight. The boy picks up his glass with his left hand. He holds it between his PIP joint and his MCP joint. He lifts it up to his mouth. He swallows two ounces,” he said as he took a partial shot.

John pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead and leaned on the table. “You’re bloody inside, you know it,” he tried, tongue feeling far to large for his mouth. “Inside…inside…insane—insane! Ha. That’s the world I was looking at.” His smile spread from one red ear to the other.

Sherlock leaned back, his arms bracing against the carpet behind him. “He sits back at watches his friend. He feels dizzy. He can’t focus on anything.”

John’s eyes savored the orange waves circling around the room. He supposed this was due to the fire and the firewhiskey, but Sherlock’s lips broadened and John caught a glimpse of his teeth.

“Sherlock,” he said, his hand aiming to hit his forehead, but he missed and hit the bridge of his nose. “What a-are you seeing?”

Sherlock jabbed his pointer finger in John’s direction, his other hand still propping him up. “You’re hair just.. _swoosh_! It looks like a bicorn horn,” he said, words slurred and voice deep and rich and oddly soothing. John took another sip as Sherlock’s hand attempted to pat down his bicorn horn. “There,” Sherlock said, his hand traveling back to the matted purple carpet.

John shoved away his glass and dropped his head onto his folded arms. “Those beds, very comforting…convertible… _comfortable._ ” He laughed. “I’m really sleepy right now.”

Sherlock sat up. Jumped to his feet. “Then let’s go! We can go to the Forest! You won’t need to sleep then, obviously. You have to be awake to walk,” he said.

John’s eyebrows smudged into a line. “No you don’t,” he mumbled.

“You don’t?”

“Sleep- _walking_ , you git.”

Sherlock’s face lit up with joy. He grinned. “Oh! I lost sleepwalking. I deleted it.”

“You can’t just forget it, Sherlock.”

“Well _you_ can’t just be a bicorn. You’re not Teddy. You’re not animal-gus. You can’t shakesift.”

John grew offended. “I can’t?”

“Obviously.”

“Why not?”

“You’re mum and dad are muggles.”

“Oh,” John said. “Right. Gooood.”

Sherlock dashed to grab his coat, which was discarded on his mattress. “He picks up his coat and runs out the door. Hopefully his friend will follow his lead. Will they get caught?” he said.

John followed his friend’s lead. They wound through the halls of the school, tiptoed through lit corridors, and shoved themselves behind a statue of Salzar Slytherin when a head boy for the Hufflepuff house walked by. Sherlock’s laughter filled John’s ears, all muffled and charming. Sherlock’s laughter sounded like the Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs Albus brought back after summer. They were so close.

But then the head boy meandered past. Sherlock nudged John out of his way and they continued lurking around the school.

“Sherlock!” he said at one point, “where are we going? The forest is the opposite way!”

“I have a shortcut I found last week,” Sherlock replied.

So they walked, Sherlock muttering to himself about pace distances and the different varieties of chalk. “I know chalk,” John heard at one point. “I _know_ chalk.”

When they made it to what Sherlock had deemed secret passage worthy, they tumbled inside a tight hallway that had only one window. The moonlight barely exposed any of Sherlock’s features. “Er, Sherlock? Is this right?”

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically and told John to follow him further into the passage. John did, but a wall stopped them. “It ended,” Sherlock declared loudly. John fumbled to cover Sherlock’s mouth with his hand. “T’ End’t!” was all John could hear.

“Hush, you sod. People will hear us,” he said.

“Sooo?”

“They could know where we are. We’re not ‘llowed to be here.”

“We’re allowed to be wherever we want…my brother’s the Minister of Magic!” Sherlock said, a sort of joy in his voice. Or was that sarcasm?

Despite his skin acing and feeling loose, John replied, “He’s not Minister yet. He thinks he is but he is not.”

Sherlock huffed. He crossed his arms over his chest, purple button-down clinging to his damp skin. He pressed his back onto the wall and slumped down.

John remained standing, his own arms crossed, eyes latched onto the moon. “Mary would have like this,” he said to himself.

“Being drunk for the initial time?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” he said, but his head felt like it had been rubbed raw. “Maybe. I don’t…remember.”

When he looked back down at Sherlock, he found that his eyes were latched the single curl that had fallen into Sherlock’s vision. He slumped down next to him and brushed it out of the way. “Bicorn horn,” he chuckled. He did not think about what Teddy had said.

Sherlock leaned into his touch. His eyes closed. John heard him humming.

“If I’m bicorn then you’re the sodding giant squid,” John commented. His hand was still learning the textures of Sherlock’s hair when he laughed, a series of rattles that rippled from his chest to the rest of his body.

“You’re the one man in the portrait with the weird nose down by the kitchens,” Sherlock said. When John gave him a confused look and retrieved his hand, Sherlock added, “The one with the nose and the wig who shouted at us for coming in from the forest that night in November during third year.”

John’s jaw dropped. “You’re the whomping willow because that one fucking _harsh_.”

A hearty laugh, more ripples pooling into the left side of John. He got elbowed for that one. “I haven’t nearly killed a total of seven students,” he said.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize that six wasn’t enough for you.”

Sherlock giggled. Actually giggled. John watched with horror.

“Are you alright?” he asked, but the giggles slowly faded and transfigured into snores. By the time John realized Sherlock had fallen asleep, half of his body weight was already dumped on him.

•••

As the moon crawled across the sky, as the sun spun its pursuit, Sherlock and John remained in the dark hallway. Their sweat faded, their limbs molded, and their eyelids remained heavy.

In the morning, one woke first. He nudged the other so he woke as well. When they stood up and rearranged themselves and their clothing, their eyes casted down to their shoes. A single, strained ache carved through their heads.

And when they found their way out, they parted ways. No words were shared.


	26. Interlude II, I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer rolls into John and Sherlock's lives and the creek around the Manor continues to rush around their ankles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the horribly short chapter. I don't have a decent excuse so iI'm just going to leave that as is.
> 
> Also, please pardon the shit French. I haven't taken it for two years now so if someone is actually decent at speaking it they should _totally_ correct me on it.

When summer arrived and the Express shipped them back off to London, Sherlock greeted his family with a smile on his face.

His _adopted_ family— _John’s_ family.

It had been over five months since Mary’s death. Each passing day strengthened John. Sherlock slowly spotted the charm seep back into his eyes, the boyhood slip into his steps when he walked with Sherlock down to the Great Hall for dinner.

This was not denying that it had been hard for John.

John seldom slept in his own bed. Half the nights John managed to sleep were plagued with nightmares. A whole week went by before John did not need Sherlock’s persuasion to venture into one of the school’s bathrooms. He stopped flinching when he saw a Ravenclaw tie around February. Although, five months later, John still claimed sugar quills would taste bitter to him if he ever tried one again, still claimed Hogsmeade would only evoke memories he did not want to see. By the time the Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff match rolled around after Valentine’s Day, John has regained his once-lost “pep” (or so Sherlock overheard his mates say).

John had struggled with Valentine’s Day. But Sherlock had busied him with Wizard’s Chess and adventures to the kitchens late that night after he’d woken up screaming.

Whether it was related to Mary’s death or not, Sherlock had notice a rather _new_ focus in John. He rarely cracked one-liners in Defense, sitting so far forward that Sherlock thought he’d be sniffing Teddy’s robes if he leant any further.

Sherlock caught John watching him more, all crinkled brows and infant eyes.

So when summer arrived and he and John piled into the back of the Watson family car, Sherlock waited patiently for John to reveal the trauma he’d been through during the past school year.

John didn’t mention it when they pulled up to the house, nor when his mother and father helped them move back into John’s room. He had a splendid chance to do so after his mother explained that they’d traded John’s bed in for a bunk bed so Sherlock didn’t have to sleep on a mattress on the ground anymore.

But he let them tell their stories about the domestics of the Watson household. He let them explain how Harry hadn’t been home for four months, claiming she was living with Clara. He allowed a whole night pass, a whole night of Sherlock remaining alert, listening to John’s steady breaths, expecting him to wake and shout his words about baths and dresses and Mary.

John told them over breakfast the next morning.

Shock ran over their faces like the first cool breeze of autumn. Then sadness. Mrs. Watson stood up and made her way over to him and hugged him. Mr. Watson thanked Sherlock for staying by his side to help him through the process.

Mycroft never sent Sherlock Moriarty’s location. Sherlock had requested such information a week after his promise, but Mycroft’s owl had returned with a letter that claimed the fellow Slytherin was on the move and could not be found.

For all they knew, Moriarty was living next door.

The second night back at John’s home just before the clock with digital letters in his bedroom read 2:21, Sherlock heard John bolt upright. He began to scream.

It took Sherlock only seconds to scale up to the top bunk where John was. He caught John’s eyes and cuffed his wrists with his fingers when he started to thrash. A sheet of fog separated John from reality.

“John, look at me. It was a dream. You’re fine. I’m right here…We’re back at home,” he said.

But John continued to suck in breaths like he was drowning. “She’s dead, Sherlock. It wasn’t a dream.”

Just then, yellow light encompassed the room. Sherlock’s head turned. His hands continued to prevent John from harm.

There stood Mr. and Mrs. Watson.

“I’m sorry he woke you up, but it’s fine now. If he does it again go back to sleep. I can handle it,” he told them.

Mr. Watson frowned and rubbed his wife’s back before leaving. “He’s okay?” John’s mother asked.

“He will be in a few minutes. It’s normal.”

She left, too, a moment later.

“You talk like I’m not here in front of you,” John said.

Sherlock scrutinized every nook and slope of his face. The chains were tight against Prometheus’s flesh that night.

His words tucked into the spaces between John’s bottomless inhales. “What else was I supposed to say?”

John looked down and managed to wriggle his wrists out of Sherlock’s grasp. His hands dropped to his lap.

Sherlock’s palms felt cool. And tingly.

“Go back to bed. I’m sorry,” John said.

“You’re fine?” he asked.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Sherlock climbed down the ladder. He could still hear the rush of waves overhead.

•••

The next morning, Sherlock woke to an empty room. John was not above him, nor in the desk chair that Sherlock stared at while trying to fall asleep at night.

But when Sherlock left to use the loo, it was occupied. He brushed his knuckles on the wood twice and the door opened. John greeted him with a toothbrush stuck in his mouth.

“Mor’in’” he managed.

Sherlock plucked his from the jar next to the sink. He sat down atop the toilet seat and, before brushing his own, asked, “You went back to sleep?” 

John spat out his toothpaste. “Yeah. Thanks, by the way.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You don’t have to do that, though.”

He shrugged. The toothbrush was impatiently waiting to be removed from Sherlock’s mouth.

“Mum’s making poached eggs. And pancakes.” John scratched his head. The light that trickled in from the pristal glass window above Sherlock’s head gave John a halo.

Sherlock swallowed the toothpaste. The burn that ran down his throat felt good. Or so he told himself.

“Want to help me practice after breakfast?”

Sherlock looked away when John leant against the doorframe, his arm perched over his halo.

“James Sirius said that since he graduated I have a good chance at Captain next year.”

•••

After breakfast they packed their Quaffles and mounted their brooms. They flew to outskirts of the forest near the Holmes’s Manor and set up there. The Manor was far enough where Sherlock’s puppet parents could not see them, but close enough that John could spot a faint glimmer arise in Sherlock’s eyes.

 _Dammit_...A faint glimmer.

 _He was not gay_.

“What can we use as goal posts?” Sherlock asked.

John whipped his head around and eyed the line of trees. He pointed to two a small length away from each other. “There. I have to get it past them both.”

Sherlock coasted to an appropriate height above him. John had to admit it, for not being a Quidditch player, Sherlock had a certain ease to him when he flew. Perhaps this was because he was a pureblood and learned how to navigate the air from a young age—nevertheless, he possessed grace.

John pressed his feet to the cool dirt and shoved off. Momentarily, he was next to Sherlock, hovering in the breeze that rustled the leaves of the trees in front of him.

“I’ll try to go easy on you,” he said. Sherlock gave him a pointed look for this, but he brushed it off with a chuckle. “They call me Wild Watson, you know. There’s a reason for it.”

Sherlock flew in a few circles before rearing up on John and snatching the Quaffle from his grasp. “They call me freak, you know. There’s a reason for it.” His eyebrows raised a bit and he laughed himself, just before he tossed the ball back to John.

“You sod,” said John, appeased.

The smile that cut through Sherlock’s lips disappeared the minute John threw the Quaffle into their makeshift goalpost.

“ _Barbarian_ ,” spat Sherlock.

John shrugged, caught the ball, and hummed around before aiming again.

•••

An hour later they were sat on the banks of the river that ran behind the Manor, their jeans rolled up and feet plunged into the cold water. They ate sandwiches John’s mother insisted they take with them, tossing jokes to one another like it was a sweat-slickened Quaffle.

“Not good?” Sherlock asked after a particularly insulting one about Lestrade.

“Bit not good, yeah,” John responded, though a snicker followed.

They were quiet for a while, allowing the silence to wash against their ankles with the stream, until John asked, “Did your mother make sandwiches? Before the, _ah_ ,curse?”

Sherlock looked down at his food. “She made _croque-monsieurs_. They’re French.”

He was careful with his tenses. Though they were immobilized for the most part, Sherlock’s parents were still alive. “Is she French?” he asked.

“Her mother came from France. She speaks it fluently and made sure Mycroft and I could understand it when she does, but she only speaks it around the house.”

John took a bite of his sandwich. “Say something in French, then.”

“ _Pourquoi?_ ” Sherlock asked.

“What?”

“ _Ça Ne Fait Rien_.”

“Yeah. Still don’t know what you’re saying.”

“ _Moi non plus_.”

“Right, what about your father?”

“Oxford raised. Senseless compared to the rest of us—though he is rather remarkable in his own…crafty ways. You would think he’s a muggle by the looks of him.”

“So your mother is like you and Mycroft?”

“Smarter than my father—she taught Charms at Beauxbatons Academy before I was born—but no smarter than Mycroft and me.”

A fulsis swam near his feet and darted off once it noticed how close it was to John.

“You’ll be a decent captain,” said Sherlock.

John sat only a broomslength away from him. He took in a deep breath. “Decent?” he questioned.

Sherlock smiled. A real, genuine, boyish smile. It was ethereal. _Sherlock was ethereal._ “Undoubtedly.”

Perhaps the wolf inside him was the same wolf inside Sherlock. Perhaps they were born of the same magic.

Perhaps John was okay with that.

The silence returned. The tall oak leaves above watched over them fondly. John leaned back into the tree bark and looked at Sherlock. And when Sherlock caught his gaze, he was okay with it.


	27. Interlude II, Pt II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the manor is followed by a visit from a man wearing pinstripes.

The next time he and Sherlock ventured out to the fields by the Holmes’s Manor, they wandered in the river, ankles cool and chests warm. Sherlock turned to him, eyes as bright as the waters he’d been looking unto. He said, “I want to go inside today.”

“Inside where?” John asked.

Sherlock’s jaw clenched. He swallowed and took a deep breath. “The Manor. I want to see my parents.”

John scratched the back of his neck and kicked a pebble with his big toe. “Are you certain that it’s a good idea? Merlin, Sherlock, look what they did to you in second year!”

“I need to go back. It will push me further than before with Moriarty. If Mycroft’s men cannot find him and he’s out there, he’s going to be plotting. He could strike at any moment. And when he does, I need to have my parent’s faces to remember.”

John frowned, but he stepped out of the river nonetheless. He ignored the uncomfortable feeling of socks being pulled onto wet feet and shoved on his shoes. When he looked up, Sherlock was standing in front of him holding out his broom.

Being John, he could see through the façade deemed Sherlock Holmes. His exterior sung bravery and courage, but inside John could only imagine Sherlock crumbling. He took his broom and nodded once. “We can go at any moment, you know,” John reassured.

Sherlock’s focus was still locked on John. “You won’t leave me?” he asked, eyes soft and forehead tight. He looked down at his stupid, posh oxfords. “You won’t listen to anything they say? John, I-I haven’t the slightest idea as to what will come out of their mouths, but will you ignor—”

He interrupted. “Of course, Sherlock. It was a misunderstanding second year. We’ll manage.” He took a few strides and mounted his broom. “Right,” he said. And he pressed off the ground and aimed for the ostentatious, black house.

He turned his head back and let his words catch in the wind. “Why is it so exclusive and dark? I mean…that suits you but not your entire family.”

“My father inherited it. It’s been in our family for ages,” Sherlock barked back, his broom now catching up to John.

The house stood many diminishing meters away with deep oval arches lacing the front and back entrances. From what he could see of the front, stairs spilled from the mouth of the house, its front doors a white cream that contrasted the rest of the exterior. Its windows gleamed glossy and imperturbable, some looming over the entire Manor, overlooking the large, fielded grounds. Scattered shrubbery encircled the base; but compared to the enormity of the house, the shrubbery was few and far between.

John reared up on the house and descended his broom. Sherlock followed and then pointed. “This back door leads to the kitchen. Follow me.”

John imagined the inside of the house to have rotted with age, thick spider webs draped across bergères, curtains of dust on empty armoires—eighteenth century furnishings with moth-chew covers fitted on them. But when he followed Sherlock inside, the kitchen erupted in light blues and browns and smelled of the French cooking Sherlock spoke highly of. The grand ornate designs in the walls had been skillfully painted with various shades of teals and greens, the countertops made of Maplewood, lanterns suspended from the ceilings contributing a rich, warm sensation to the room.

John watched as Sherlock’s gaze took in every portion of the room, his chin tilting up into the air as his eyes closed. He took a deep breath. “Funny,” he said, words escaping his mouth in breath rather than sound. “It smells like the Flat.” His eyes opened and he dashed up the flight of stairs that grew near the back door.

John hadn’t expected to see family pictures align the walls as he ventured up, but he had been wrong—family portraits of year after year, stopping when Sherlock was just around ten, pictures of toddler Sherlock with his arm around the neck of a copper dog with a tongue that forked as it panted. To his left, Mycroft and Sherlock opened gifts under a monumental Christmas tree, to his right, a wedding photo of Sherlock’s parents. His mother’s hair was dark like his, her mouth curled into the same half-smirk Sherlock maintained. His father stood proud, blond hair parted at the side, dress robes pristine and skin crinkled on the edges of his eyes. Their stares followed him as John bounded the last of the steps.

At the top, he found Sherlock flaccid in a corridor with high ceilings. John had to jog to the end where Sherlock was waiting for him, palm on a silver doorknob.

“I thought we were here to talk to your parents,” John said.

“They’re not home.” He pushed the door open. “Traces of floo powder, but she left the lights on. They’ll be back shorty.”

It had been Sherlock’s room he’d opened. How John came to this conclusion, he didn’t know. It did not look like a child’s room. There was a bed and a nightstand and a desk and some music sheets and empty cauldrons. But aside from those, nothing else declared the room to be Sherlock’s. Not the black, baroque wallpaper, nor the deep-set windows or the dresser that was tucked into a corner of the room. No, this room did not have posters on the walls like John’s, or trophies and awards like John’s, or even unnecessary clutter like John’s. All it had that gave any resemblance to Sherlock was a map of London and a bookshelf filled to the brim.

As John made his way over to study book titles, he could hear Sherlock pad over to his dresser. Then, the moving drawers. Fabric being shook. An ambiguous noise from the Slytherin. More drawers, more unsatisfied huffs.

“Is this how you left it?” John asked. His parents had to have altered it. This was no room to raise a child in.

“Yes. The door handle is charmed to shock any hand that isn’t mine.” Another drawer slid out.

John turned to face Sherlock and rested his palms against a shelf. “You charmed your room before the age of ten?”

“I was eight and didn’t need Mother checking in when I started to experiment with potions, mind you. I had more control over my underage magic than most.” Sherlock turned around too, his arms full with various glass jars with colored liquids in them. He was silent briefly. Until, “My clothes don’t fit anymore.”

“I don’t suppose they would, hmm,” John replied, his fingers tracing his jaw. “It’s been what? Five years since you’ve been here?”

“Four and a half,” Sherlock corrected. He motioned for John’s satchel. As he loaded the jars into the bag, he added, “Only a dressing robe fits.” He removed it from its spot slung over his shoulders and held it up for John to see. Royal blue. Very Ravenclaw like.

 _Mary_.

Instead of continuing with the thought, John asked, “You kept those jars in with your clothes?”

“Added protection.”

“Should I ask what they are or just drop the conversation?”

“Drop it,” Sherlock said, as he darted for the door.

Something creaked downstairs—Sherlock’s parents were home. A cold tendril reached up his back and stretched along his shoulders. He sought out Sherlock’s reaction, which, as he discovered it, was the same expression that took hold of Sherlock’s face as Fluffy’s tooth plunged into his shoulder first year.

“We don’t have to see them,” he suggested. “We got your stuff back. It’s not like coming here was pointless.”

Sherlock’s face stiffened, his eyes frozen on John’s. He nodded once, grabbed John’s wrist, and dragged him down the stairs as the Holmes’s family portraits watched their descents.

On the last step, with Sherlock pressing him against the wall so he could peek his head around the corner to spy on his parents, John gasped for air. “They’re in the sitting room,” the Slytherin barked into his ear, all hot breath and no voice. The grip around his wrist tightened and as soon as he knew it they were both outside, mounting their brooms, his satchel heavy against his thigh.

•••

John leant over the railing of the top bunk, just enough that he could see Sherlock’s sleeping frame and not topple over the side.

There wasn’t anything magnificent. Only swirls of blue in his vision that made up Sherlock’s silhouette. Simple shadows danced around him when his chest moved up and down slowly. There were no stars in sight, no fireworks erupting in his chest, no fuzzy feeling aside from all the blood rushing to his head.

Sherlock was so small. He was not the grand, elegant façade he put up. He was an outspoken teenage boy with long limbs and no parents to love him. He was delicate. A single crack could shatter all his pieces, but somehow, through all of this, he remained intact enough to stay awake with John at night and calm him of his terrors. 

And although the world tried to strip the innocence from Sherlock Holmes, John could see it right there, sleeping on the bottom bunk, fist curled near his pillowcase. 

He pulled himself back over the edge of the railing and ran a hand through his hair.

When the room stopped spinning and his head stopped throbbing, John knew Teddy was right.

•••

A knock rapped on the door the next day. Sherlock didn’t need to guess who it was. He could tell by the way the handle hit the door.

Mycroft presented him with a sly smile and the early stages of crow’s feet. “Hello, brother mine,” he said, ducking his chin politely. He motioned towards inside, but Sherlock shoved his own way out and closed the door tight as Mrs. Watson called to see who it was.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“What did you say to them?” Mycroft asked, weight resting on his umbrella. His eyebrows rose.

“Mother and Father?”

“Obviously,” Mycroft spat.

A cool, summer wind blew past them. The other houses in John’s neighbor looked plain and bleak behind Mycroft.

Sherlock squinted, the sun slipping out from underneath a cloud. “Nothing. I grabbed some things and left.” He studied him for a second, eyes glancing over the cuffs of his pinstriped suit, his fingertips, the rims of his shoes. “How did you know?”

Mycroft smiled. “Brother dear,” he hummed, satisfied with undoubtedly the fact that Sherlock couldn’t deduce it from him. “I can’t go and visit my own parents?”

“They didn’t know I was there,” responded Sherlock, dryly.

“Clearly Mummy hadn’t gone to the river the day before. Your corridor reeks of it.”

Sherlock huffed, eyes sinking down to his feet. He hadn’t put on any shoes and his socks were beginning to feel foreign on the pavement in front of the Watson’s front door.

Mycroft’s ego muted itself for a moment and he said, “You’re happy here? They treat you well?”

“They’re John’s parents. I’m _spoiled_.”

“You’re happy?” Mycroft asked again.

The door creaked opened behind him. “Afternoon, Mycroft,” came John’s voice.

Mycroft smiled politely. John stepped up next to Sherlock and threw a friendly arm around his shoulders. “Have your men tracked down Moriarty yet?”

Mycroft tapped the tip of his umbrella against his shoe. “Unfortunately, they are still in the process. He moves the moment after we locate him.”

Sherlock looked at John. He’d only woken up a few hours ago, never mind it being two in the afternoon. His hair hadn’t been brushed yet and his pajamas hung off his brawny limbs, loose and comfortable.

“Shame, isn’t it,” John frowned, digging into Mycroft’s self-esteem even more. He slapped Sherlock on the back and walked to the door. “Nice chatting with you again, Myc. Keep up the good work.” The house swallowed him.

Mycroft’s lips twisted uncomfortably as he looked up at the sky, but his demeaning gaze was momentarily back on Sherlock.

It wasn’t phrased as a question when he said it. Mycroft knew his way around words—Sherlock wouldn’t deny him of that.

“You’re in love with him,” he said.

And somehow, these words didn’t surprise Sherlock when they arrived at his ears. He clenched his teeth down. He frowned, the small, sad smile burning against his lips.

“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. I’ve told you this.”

His epiglottitis felt like it was about to float to the top of his throat. A wave of guilt washed over him, bleaching every cell it came in contact with.

“Though, if you had to disobey that statement for anyone, John Watson is the only person I would deem worthy,” he said.

Sherlock looked back up and caught Mycroft’s eyes. His brother offered a small smile. “His mind is in the right place.”

Sherlock nodded. He tried to convince his head to catch up with reality.

“Stay safe, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, “I haven’t the slightest idea as to what Moriarty has planned next.”


	28. Year Six I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first quidditch practice of the season and everything is overwhelming for everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being a few days late with this one! I haven't had a lot of time to use on focusing on the fic but I'm crossing my fingers that I get more soon.  
> Thanks for patiently waiting.

After parting ways with John's parents and boarding the Express, both Sherlock and John found their usual compartment, sat down, and closed the door.

Considering that they'd been with each other for the entirety of summer, they hadn't much to say. So when a pair of knuckles rapped against the glass doors minutes later, they both turned and were delighted to see Teddy's face.

"It feels longer than it has been since I've seen the two you," he said, arm hitched up on the doorframe so he could disperse his weight. "John, have you gotten taller?"

"Five centimeters," Sherlock said as John opened his mouth to respond. Teddy smiled.

"It's been three years and nothing has changed."

"Aside from John's recent growth spurt, that is," Sherlock cut in once more.

•••

"You haven't anything better to be off doing?" asked John.

So he went with him and trudged through the damp dirt with him and scaled the stairs once they'd made it to the pitch.

Quidditch was insignificant. Sherlock had decided this early on in his schooling years. At the end of one's life playing Quidditch had no matter. It was fun, but throwing a Quaffle into a metal circle did nothing to the progression of age.

He only seldom thought this as he watched the way John interchanged with his teammates as they surrounded John in some fashion of a semi-circle. The Gryffindor threw his head back with a roar of laughter that Sherlock could hear in the echoes of the pitch. Somewhere in his palace Sherlock recalled John mentioning that they'd be trying out new third years for the team in the coming weeks.

Soon, John and his mates had mounted their brooms and released the snitch. Flashes of burgundy and brown whipped through the air as the Gryffindor team warmed up. A whistle blew and the bunch lined up in the middle, their brooms hovering just below the highest goal post. Lestrade drifted in front of the lot, shouting instructions that they should act out on.

John separated from the group and skittered up to where Sherlock had seated himself.

"Shouldn't you be out with the team?" Sherlock questioned.

"I asked the captain if I could have a quick word with you."

Sherlock's chest grew heavy. They'd already elected Captain. John wasn't the frontrunner.

"Lestrade's Captain?" Sherlock asked.

John circled Sherlock and then coasted directly in front of him. His lips quirked into a grin.

"I'm Captain," he said. His eyes grew brighter with each vowel. "…And I asked myself if I could come over here and talk to you and I said it was fine so I put Lestrade in charge of warm ups."

His own smile peeked at the corners of his mouth. "You're a right man, you know," Sherlock commented.

John's face softened. Before shooting back off to the eye of the field, he said, "I'm glad you came this time, Sherlock."

Twenty minutes of watching John and his mates throw around Quaffles passed before the wooden benches groaned.

"I used to watch Victoire during her practice near where you're sitting now," came a voice, one undoubtedly belonging to Teddy Lupin. He sat down somewhere to the right of Sherlock, scuffed his hair with his fingertips, and cracked his neck.

Sherlock kept his eyes on John's small, red outline as it zipped from one end of the pitch to the other. "He's been voted Captain."

"I would have been surprised if he hadn't been voted Captain," remarked Teddy.

They didn't look at each other, for both their eyes were trained onto the field in front of them, but their conversation nonetheless continued.

"Vic was Ravenclaw Captain in her years," Teddy said.

"And did she win House Cup?"

"Her second year as Captain," Teddy said.

Sherlock paused for a second. He scraped some dirt out from under his nails. "You were head boy, then?"

"I was a good finder."

"Aren't you all?"

"I suppose."

Sherlock's fingers drifted to his knuckles where some ink had stained his skin from haphazard scroll writing earlier that day. "Has Mycroft pestered at you this school year?" he asked.

Teddy's foot tapped on the ground. Somewhere in Sherlock's peripheral vision, the professor nodded.

"…Asked me to keep an eye on you and John, as always," said Lupin. "But he made a comment about you. Said you had to be careful and needed some guidance. Apparently he doesn't trust your judgment."

"He never has."

"He's your older brother. He has a right to doubt it."

Sherlock scoffed and kicked the bench in front of his with his shoe. He should have known Mycroft would give him grief about that day outside the Watson's.

A languid wind crept up from the West. Sherlock studied the way the leaves in the distance shuddered at its arrival. Everything was fickle.

"There's an old Greek myth about a boy who flew too close to the sun," Teddy said. He shifted his weight on his seat, the wood making a noise of complaint underneath him. "He had these wings on that he'd glued to his arms with wax. His father warned him not to fly too high, else the wax melt. But he made the wrong choice and his wings melted and he died."

Teddy turned to face him. "You've got to make the right choice, Sherlock. No one can make it for you."

Sherlock glanced at Teddy briefly, but casted his gaze onto the field once more. "Why are you telling me this?" he spat.

"Because it's important."

"No it's not."

Teddy laughed. He leant forward, elbows balancing themselves on his knees. "All right, then, Sherlock. Whatever you say."

•••

After the match, and most importantly, after he'd showered off in the changing rooms and didn't feel the itchy grime of sweat on his skin, John looked around for Sherlock so they might walk back to the castle together. But Sherlock was nowhere to be found. However, Teddy Lupin was.

John waved him down from the stands and met up with him near the mouth of the staircase.

"A little birdy told me you were voted Captain," Teddy said, a hint of keenness catching the tails of his words.

John chuckled and readjusted his duffle bag on his shoulder. He started walking, Teddy following behind.

"Yeah, well, he doesn't seem to keep his mouth shut 'round you, does he?" John said.

"Should I take that as a compliment?" Teddy quipped, fidgeting with something he'd extracted form his trousers pocket.

"It's not a terrible idea, no."

Teddy's laugh floated up from behind him as his feet pressed into the grass. The cool breeze made him shudder, no matter how much he'd toweled off after.

"How was summer for you two?"

"Serendipitous as always. We went round to his house one day. Snuck out before his parents came back."

"For what purpose?"

"Sherlock originally wanted to see his parents again—considering he hasn't seen them since he was twelve—but they weren't home so we went up to his old room and he nicked some vials and clothing and ran out just as they got back."

"He's terrified of his parents, though."

"Under the Imperius, yeah. But he said he needed to be able to see their faces whenever Moriarty decided to come back."

Teddy hummed something. John's jaw clenched.

"Are you certain about the Patronus?" he asked Teddy.

When John stopped walking, Teddy caught up to him. The professor was laughing. The skin next his eyes crinkled.

"Are you continuing a conversation we had four months ago?"

"Never mind, then," John said bristly. He continued to walk again.

"I'm not certain, no. But only you can answer it. Whatever your heart is telling you—that's what it means."

When they got back to the castle and began to part ways, Teddy called out to him. "Come 'round one night this week. Bring Sherlock. We can have a dinner in the Defense room to welcome the new school year, yeah?"

"You say this to all your pupils?" John yelled back jokingly.

"You this cheeky to all your professors?" Teddy winked and then vanished into a heard of first year cloaks.

•••

They had lived with each other long enough to know when the other was there. John needn't even look to check if Sherlock was there before he starting talking. Or, that was what Sherlock supposed because that was how he saw it. But, frankly, there were times he talked to John when John wasn't even in the room. So, perhaps, he had no place to talk at all.

"How long do you suppose that stupid bloody charm will take to start wearing off?" John asked as he opened the door to the Flat, hair damp and wind-blown, cheeks pink from the soft bite of early-autumn.

"What charm, exactly?" he asked.

John slung his Quidditch bag off his shoulders. Once it had fallen to the ground, he gave it a swift kick with his heel and it slid to the wall. Gladstone inspected it immediately. "Lestrade's hair. I thought the color would just grow out after that one time and yet it's been, what? Four years? I'm surprised he still isn't giving me bollocks for it now."

Sherlock stepped away from his cauldron and inhaled a breath that didn't smell bitter. "Color changing charms tend to be infrequent, whether sticking for seconds or years. He hasn't tried to research how to get it out?"

"He claims the girls have been calling him the 'Blue Streak' when he's on the pitch. 'The ladies can't stop staring', apparently."

Sherlock's eyebrow rose skeptically, but he didn't reply.

John scratched at his head. The only noises in the Flat were Gladstone's infrequent purrs and the simmering of the brass cauldron behind Sherlock's back.

They broke gazes. Something shifted in Sherlock's chest. This wasn't the way friends behaved.

John eyed the empty fireplace and said, "Teddy's asked us to the Defense Room sometime this week for dinner.

He couldn't deduce whether it was just growth and maturity in John or something else, but the way the two of them aligned then, two falling sparks, was not like they had lined up before.

Somewhere in the distance, perhaps on the shores of the Black Lake or somewhere farther, the sun bore down upon waves as they crashed against a rock. There was a rattle of chains and a quick, languid feeling of hot wax on skin.

Sherlock nodded once. His feet turned himself back to the cauldron. He'd never been good at divination, but the purple liquid swirling around was speaking to him then and it was telling him that it wasn't just maturity in John. It wasn't growth, either.


	29. Year Six I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has no filter, Teddy has no patience, and John has too much loyalty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! Sorry for the lack of update last month. I got swept up in responsibilities, but I assure you it won't happen again.
> 
> What did you guys think of _tab_? I FREAKED OUT WHEN IT SWITCHED TO THE PLANE OKAY I HAD NO CHILL

For some unknown reason on the last Sunday of September, the Great Hall was fairly deserted. And for some unknown reason, John's bunch of Gryffindor mates were nowhere to be found.

"My friends are nowhere to be found," stated John blatantly.

Sherlock hummed and scribbled something incomprehensible onto his already-late potions paper. "Half of Hogwarts is out sick. Some first year's hex went wrong yesterday."

"Then why are some people immune?" John asked.

"They were out of the castle when it happened or too far away from whatever room it was cast in. We were in the Flat. It doesn't count as the castle because it changes locations," said Sherlock.

John huffed and stuffed another piece of pork into his mouth. "This school is mad."

"You're learning this now? That's six years too late."

John tilted his chin and raised his eyebrows. "True," he laughed.

He dove back into his breakfast. When he looked at Sherlock again, a quizzical look resided on the Slytherin's face. "Your hair looks golden when you tilt your head like this," Sherlock said, motioning to John's scalp. Sure enough, John looked up himself and could see a faint, yellow glow to his hair.

He didn't say anything, but looked at him in bewilderment.

"Just thought you should know," Sherlock added quickly.

John hummed. He needn't try to prove his point: Sherlock Holmes had no filter to his speech.

The Slytherin looked back down at his scroll. This time, what he was writing was legible.

"I do not blush!" John quipped, but Sherlock's hand shot up and covered his mouth to stop the remnants of the sentence. Although mostly sick, some of the student body _did_ accompany them in the Hall.

"Are you scrutinizing me?" John half-whispered, half-shouted.

Sherlock looked away embarrassedly, down at his scroll, which he trundled up. "Perhaps," he muttered.

John let out a stunted exhale and rolled his eyes at the stained glass window in front of him. "Downright prat, you are."

"It suited you," Sherlock said. He needn't look over to know Sherlock was smiling smugly as he said it.

"The blushing?"

"I was referring to the golden hair bit, no need to demonstrate the blushing again."

John grumbled and pushed his plate away. He stood up from the table and made his way to the door, Sherlock already on his heels. _In Merlin's name_ , why did he have to have such long legs?

"It's only research!" Sherlock called out from behind.

"It's only being a prick!" he shouted, the back of his neck burning hot.

•••

"I have some news for the two of you."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. To his side, John paused as he was, mid chew, and rather awkwardly stared.

To make it worse, Teddy just watched both of them.

"Yes?" Sherlock prodded.

"Right. Well, it's not exactly news 'cause it hasn't happened yet, but it's in the works."

He and John continued to stare.

Teddy dropped his hands flat onto the table, the knife he'd been previously holding clashing with a lurid clank that echoed throughout the room. "I'm going to propose to Victoire. After first term, during the hols."

"What?" John said, shocked.

Teddy nodded furiously, his cheeks rushing rouge, mouth pressed so far tight it seemed impossible for him to spit out the word, "Yeah…yeah."

"Have you told your family?" John asked.

"The Weasleys?"

"Weasleys, Potters," said Sherlock with his hand waving aimlessly in the air—his trademark, "the entire lot."

Teddy fidgeted with a leather-wound bracelet he wore on his wrist. "No. Actually, you two are the only ones to know so far."

"We've only known you for a handful of years? Granted, you're like our older brother, but aren't you close to your family?"

"Extremely. Which is why I can't tell them. You tell Uncle George something and the whole lot knows it by supper. That's the problem. Vic will know I'm going to propose before I can get down on one knee."

"Not even your uncle?" asked John, eyebrow shot up crooked.

"Harry?"

He nodded, a smile brimming his lips. "Yeah."

"I haven't been home since I decided to do it. I'm flying back this weekend since it's Aunt Hermione's birthday. I'll tell him then."

"You trust him enough?" asked Sherlock.

Teddy looked him in the eye. He nodded once himself—curt. His voice came from his throat. "With my life."

John grinned. "That means you trust us with your life, then?"

Teddy's face busted with a newfound glee. His shoulders appeared to loosen up, too. "In theory," he laughed, the hollow chuckle rising from the depths of his stomach. "Then again, the second time we met I was saving your arses."

John shot up from the table. His fist slammed down on the wood. Silverware clanked in agreement. "Oi! A curse!" he shouted excitedly.

Teddy slapped him with his napkin and went back to his meal. John took this time sit back down and add, "I think we're due to meet her some time here, _Professor_." He took a drink. "Considering you've known us for three years now."

Teddy thought for a moment. But then he nodded profusely and said, "You should come 'round to our flat sometime. It's up near Regent's in London. Let me talk to Vic and see when it's best."

Sherlock spoke up for the first time in awhile. "You're not afraid of me meeting her?" he asked.

"You meeting Vic? Not at all. She won't be fazed by the deductions."

His nerves cut off. Every one was put off by the deductions. And the two people who weren't were seated in front of him. "She won't be put off?"

Teddy leaned forward. "If anything, she'll like you more. I wouldn't put you in a place where I didn't think you'd be comfortable, Sherlock."

Sherlock picked at his food and ignored John's motherly expression of scorn when the Gryffindor caught along.

"Is there anything else you need to tell us?" John asked.

He scratched at his eyebrow and stretched. "Hmm…I used to play Gobstones religiously when I was eight. Nana thought I had gone insane," Teddy confessed "'that count?"

A wicked grin leapt onto John's skin. He elbowed Sherlock. "We have an International Gobstones champ in our presence!" he bellowed.

Teddy threw back his head and braced his arms against the table in defense. "Just because I had a year-long phase of playing Gobstones doesn't mean I entered in the International League!"

"Oi, you obviously entered if you're so passionate about denying it."

Teddy stared at them blankly. "What does it matter if I did?"

Sherlock and John erupted into howls.

"What did you place?"

"Fifth," said Teddy, a pout hinting on his mouth.

More laughter ensued.

When they quieted down and when Hogwarts had settled in another round of creeks and groans, Teddy looked at them sternly. "Have you heard anything from Moriarty recently?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply. "No," he said.

"That's dangerous."

"Unfortunately, yes," Sherlock huffed.

Teddy sucked in a deep breath and pushed his chair back. Yellow shadows danced along his cheek from the lantern on the wall as his hand made a repetitive journey to and from his mouth in contemplation. "Have you considered that he's not planning on coming back? That torturing you was enough? He twists your mind into paranoia and kills a _student_ and just leaves? To spite you?"

"No," Sherlock bit. "No, there's no point. No motive. He can't just kill for the merciless _motive_ of spite! An adult wouldn't be so foolish, nor would a child. He was _eleven_ , Lupin, when this first started. How could you be so daft?"

" _You_ were eleven, Sherlock," John said.

"So? What's the importance? Moriarty would never have danced around us for such a significant amount of time, had there not have been a specific reason for doing so."

"Well if that's the case, then what is his purpose? Since you're so opposed to there being a lack of one"

"I've thought all along that he was fixated on me. Whether that remains true or not is past me. And if so, _if_ it is me he is obsessed me, _why_? He could have picked anyone in this forsaken castle…anyone in the world…and he chose me. Another eleven year old with a brain too big for his head."

John's hand clutched his wrist. "Sherlock." He wore a pointed look that meant _'enough'_.

If only Sherlock could read Moriarty the way he could read John's single facial expression.

He met John's eyes. "I need to."

"No... _No_. You don't always have to check every bloody time you think of him!"

He needn't look at Teddy to know he was staring, exasperated, at the two of them communicating in ways no one understood.

"Every time I do something significant happens! I only go when I need to!"

"But you have no need! We've only been discussing Teddy's Gobstones habits and you got all riled up and now your want to go take a stroll in the bloody Forest!"

Teddy muttered something of protest behind him, but it didn't matter. He stood up from the table and dashed out of the room. John wasn't on his heels until a moment later.

"What did you say to him?" he spat, eyes trained on the bit of corridor in front of him. John was grunting. His legs were moving faster than John's. Obviously.

"Pardon? What? Sherlock, slow down for Merlin's sake!"

"To Teddy. He's not following us. You convinced him to stay behind." Sherlock whipped around the corner, hand itching for his wand that was snug inside his pocket. He dug in and snatched it. "What did you say and _why_?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter. You're not going out there anyways."

He stopped.

Faced John, looked him up and down, tossed him an apathetic look of disgust. "And what makes you say that?"

John stood his ground. Clenched his fist. "Because I'm going to make a deal with you." His shoulders tensed.

"A deal?"

"Yes."

"Great. Splendid. Can you spit it out so I can get back on my way to the Forest to hunt him down?"

John's chin pressed closer to his neck. It had been a while since he'd seen John angry.

"What is it," Sherlock said.

"I'll let you go down to the Forest," said John. He took a step forward and his fist clenched again. "But not tonight—another night, when you have a realistic reason to be going about doing this…when Moriarty has actually showed up to the door of our Flat and presented us with a note that says 'I'm back, come find me'. Merlin knows that will be soon enough. You're not going to go wasting you efforts on some sort of unrealistic urge you have."

Sherlock's mouth quivered. He'd been overcome.

"And when that time comes you'll let me? You won't make a childish deal with me to get me out of it?"

John grunted. "Certainly," he said.

Sherlock returned his wand back to his pocket. He stormed off the opposite way in which he had been previously headed.

John didn't speak until they got to the Flat.

"It wasn't childish," he said

They were seated in the armchairs by the fire, Sherlock in the right, John on the left.

"Hmm?"

"The deal. It worked. We're sitting here like we should be, sound headed."

Sherlock pressed his curled up fist against his lips and flexed his fingers. He looked away from John—at the fire, at Gladstone, at anything but him. He couldn't stand not being right. It was worse than the urge for substances when he'd left John, second year.

John laughed and threw some old bit of parchment at him from across the room.

•••

A week later, John obeyed his end of the deal—even if he thought it unreasonable.

Sherlock was looking out at the lake, briefly, through the windows of the Flat. It was night. He was frustrated with the outcome of one of his potion experiments.

It was normal.

John was seated in his typical chair, mindlessly reading a certain well-worn book while taking breaks to check on what Sherlock was doing silently.

It was normal.

And then Sherlock jumped back from the glass and fell to the floor and his eyes were looking somewhere distant when John came to his side.

"I need to go to the Forest. You promised. It's the hound."

And John sighed and picked him up and maintained the promise. He was a good friend. He wouldn't go back on that.

Had he not have been a good friend, he would have saved the two of them from the threat that awaited them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is big
> 
> _Just you wait,  
>  just you waiiiit_


	30. Year Six III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dementors come and so does a hitch in their relationship.

The Forest was always dim and eerie. There were gasps of blue moonlight slipping through the leaves in the trees which made beacons of light touch down the rooted, littered ground.

For John and Sherlock, entering the Forest for the sake of peril was like coming home after a long time away. Nothing had changed. The unnerving noises still crept up behind them, the same stale scent still slipped into their noses, and large, hound footprints still tripped them when they walked.

Fluffy appeared almost immediately. And almost immediately John's hand caught Sherlock and dragged him further away from the gigantic hound.

Fluffy had not entirely changed from the last time they'd seen him. He still had three heads, he still had fangs that could pierce the shoulders of an eleven year-old boy, and he still sent adrenaline through Sherlock and John's bodies.

Although John pulled Sherlock away and they made good speed, one of Fluffy's paws reached out and hitched onto Sherlock's chest and sliced it open. In the means that it happened, the momentum did not knock Sherlock off of his feet, but propelled him forward, as if the occurrence never happened.

But the momentum knocked John's hand away from Sherlock's wrist. The adrenaline was high and all they could focus on was the crunch of dead leaves underneath their feet each and every time their shoes hit the ground.

•••

Eventually, Sherlock had found himself without the hound behind him as he ran, but he had enough urgency coursing through his veins that he couldn't help himself but to keep running. The gash in his chest didn't begin to ache and tear at his mind in agony until his shoe hooked on an uprooted tree branch and he toppled over, his crimson-soaked button down splattering red rain on the leaves around him.

It was then, face down, that he heard the sound.

A single, splitting screech came at him from above. He summoned up all the strength he could find and turned himself over so he could brace whatever had found him, but it was not a single creature. Instead, the sky was completely covered with black, tattered fabric. Dementors swooped down at him one by one.

And he was alone. Merlin, was he so alone.

His head lolled back. Every pore in his being tingled and slipped out of their places. His lungs drew inhales of little depth. The images slurred in front of him. Tendrils curled out from his peripheral vision, sloppy black smudges dotting the canvas of his eyesight. There were gusts of wind. They spun and twirled in the very air he could not seem to suck into his lungs. Arms of the cold, black mass embraced him and pulled him in. The air was sweet and cold.

Through the hollows of the darkness a voice slipped into his senses, but it was dull and not sharp enough to cut through the film of death that covered his nerves. The gash on his chest grew more and more enervating—a thick, lurid mass that drained not only the energy out of Sherlock, but the sense of purpose. The mass called his name and he only but wanted to follow it when it called.

As he sunk down into the horde of dementors his skin grew numb and the black smudges swirled into one solid form.

He did not notice the light. He did not see the absence of moth-chewed cloaks, nor felt the arms encompass his lifeless frame. But Sherlock Holmes heard the groan of a wolf in the distance, the bellow of a cry that shot life back into his veins.

 _Let him be the last thing I see_.

The moon was nowhere near full, but the howls rocketed through the forbidden forest.

A sensation breeched his forehead—tender—and then a flash of coolness came about him. Sherlock's chest erupted in bright energy. When his eyes shot open, he saw John.

But they weren't alone in the forest. A white wolf accompanied them.

His mouth was dry, but he managed to cry out, "John?"

The moment John's eyes fell on Sherlock, the wolf vanished into the bitter, fall air. Sherlock watched as John tried at words, but all that came about on John's end was a slackened jaw.

Sherlock bartered for enough air. With each lungful, he surveyed John's health—eyeing the scratch under John's left eye, the way John's shoulders hunched over Sherlock's body, the way he held Sherlock in his lap. It had been no wolf that had saved him. It had been John and his patronus.

"You, John," Sherlock breathed, at first with a cough. But soon Sherlock found his voice and continued, "It was always you I thought about. You keep me… _right_. "

John's breath darted from his lungs. Sherlock felt the heat of it on his cheeks. He sat up, with little help from John—regardless of having to use John's arm to steady himself.

John's mouth moved, but the sounds didn't match the actions. Sherlock blinked. "I just took longer…I was planning on saying something, but I didn't know what—"

Sherlock's hands slipped over John's shoulders and locked around his neck. His head pressed into the warm skin on the side of John's collar.

"Oh," he heard. He could feel the vibration of John's voice. If Sherlock could pick his favorite word, right then and there, 'Oh' would have won with flying colors.

John's breath rustled the back of Sherlock's hair as he said it. And when John's arms found his own back and clutched on tight, he swallowed, and did not think of his heart ruling his head.

"Never let me go."

•••

On the way back to the castle, Sherlock supplied most of his weight onto John's right side—his arm twined around John's shoulder, and, most importantly, his right hand knitted into John's right hand.

The walk was slow, but steady. Both boys found themselves exhausted, enamored, and with breaths that came out in short huffs that stirred the autumn air in bouts. But they were together. And they were alive.

•••

They ignored the fact the there was only one bed, rather than two. Even the Room of Requirement knew something had changed.

John led Sherlock to the lone mattress and placed him down gently, for his frame was still weak. When John gazed into his eyes, Sherlock was still rather foggy. Sherlock sat atop the mattress and John examined the wounds, his fingertips drifting along the skin of Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock looked up, startled apparently, and John's expression softened.

"Is this okay?" he asked, not entirely testing if he was in pain. He was more so testing his boundaries. Although there was a shift in perceptions, it was new and Sherlock was magnificent and John was beyond nervous as to how Sherlock would grow into his soul.

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. His lashes fluttered. John felt more weight in his palms as Sherlock's head drew close to his stomach where he held it.

John took a deep breath and he knew. Everything that had happened in his lifetime led him to that moment—to Sherlock giving in and removing even more of the negative space between them.

"Are you experiencing any pain?" he asked gently, fingertips slipping along Sherlock's jaw and pocketing Sherlock's ear between his fingers.

When Sherlock hummed his response, John could feel it in his bones. "You should consider being a Healer, John. It would suit you."

John allowed his fingers to trace circles into Sherlock's scalp. Sherlock leant into his touch. "There's no pain?" he asked again.

"Not anymore," he said.

John took a deep breath in. By the time he was ready to exhale, Sherlock's eyes had already closed and his head had nestled into the spot between John's shoulder and neck. When Sherlock breathed, it tickled John.

His fingertips journeyed to the nape of Sherlock's neck. For a moment, he could have sworn to Merlin that his fingers were brushing through a patch of coarse, white fur. But when he looked at Sherlock's head resting on his shoulder, all he could see was a mess of spilled-ink spirals and an exhausted Slytherin.

And when Sherlock climbed into bed with him he was cold and nothing like John expected.

•••

John woke Sherlock up halfway through the night. His bandages needed changed and John wanted another chance to look at him without feeling like he would find himself scorned for the action.

He brushed Sherlock's curls away from his eyes and massaged his thumb into Sherlock's forehead. When Sherlock finally stirred, he squinted and then grumbled, "Are you in pain?"

John frowned. "It's not excessive. I'm fine, Sherlock. Really."

Sherlock made his standard ambiguous noise and sat up. His hand instantly went to his chest to put pressure there. Throbbing, no doubt.

"There's a vile to the left of the brass cauldron on my desk. It's filled about halfway with purple liquid. Can you grab it for me?" he asked, eyes squinting.

John nodded and fetched the vile. He brought it to Sherlock, but as he tried to hand it to him, Sherlock pushed it away. "It's for you," he said.

John huffed, but downed the contents anyway, not bothering to ask what it was. Since he'd done as Sherlock asked, he went and grabbed fresh bandages from he bedside table. When he looked back at Sherlock, his eyes were bloodshot and gaunt looking, and his skin was bruised at large proportions. If only he could take the pain away from him, everything would have been fine.

"Put your arms up," he instructed gently, nudging Sherlock's wrist with his knuckles.

"I can't."

"Yes you can. Now let me just pull the arm away from your chest. Okay. Good. Keep your arms up there…this will only take a minute."

It was difficult to ignore Sherlock's protests in pain, but he managed. His fingertips slipped under the hemline of Sherlock's tee and pulled it up over the Slytherin's head.

As he tended to the bandages and replaced them, he continued checking with Sherlock that he was doing all right— nonverbally. And every time, Sherlock looked up at him like he was the world.

When he was done, Sherlock's eyes had grown even heavier. John pulled the shirt back over Sherlock's head and guided him to his pillow.

"Thank you, John," he wheezed, eyes closed, body limp against the mattress.

John pulled the covers tight around the two of them. He pressed his lips onto Sherlock's forehead and didn't wake until the next morning.

•••

Sherlock's eyes split open and adjusted to the weak lighting in the Flat. The sun had yet to come up, but the fire had died and Gladstone had journeyed to the lone bed for warmth instead.

The shadows parted and John's figure emerged as a silver outline next to him. Soft, buoyant breaths filled the Gryffindor's lungs.

They had slept beside each other many times. That itself was not new. The sparks of electricity, which had jolted through his veins every time he thought about it, weren't new, either. And although every time they had found themselves on the same mattress, the reasons had been individual. They'd been singular.

John's knee had twisted as he ran through the forest. Sherlock could tell this by the way he'd walked to get the vile. His own chest ached and his skin grew hot in a common wail of pain. But all the injuries and flaws did not get in the way of Sherlock shuffling closer to John.

Mycroft once told him he would never be pleased. It was after they'd gone to the museum with their parents. Sherlock hadn't gotten to see a pirate exhibit, for which he had been promised. It had been closed a week prior due to 'Preservation and Aging Studies'.

"You couldn't have been happy with all the other exhibits, could you, Sherlock?" Mycroft had said to him as Sherlock kicked a pebble in front of his feet, hands shoved far down into his coat pockets.

John changed him as a being and made him whole in ways he could not fathom even being unwholesome. But a piece was still missing.

He had tried to define their relationship the first time he fell into a bed beside John Watson. Sherlock never came to a final conclusion. And yet, with his pale and bruised fingers finally able to press up against the glass wall of the pirate exhibit, he still didn't know.

But he did know that he was happy. And that he had John. And no matter what Moriarty did to him, at least one thing went right in his life.

He'd take John over wax pirates any day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though this fic still has a means to go, this chapter is what started it all.


	31. Year Six III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dementors come and so does a hitch in their relationship.

The Forest was always dim and eerie. There were gasps of blue moonlight slipping through the leaves in the trees which made beacons of light touch down the rooted, littered ground.

For John and Sherlock, entering the Forest for the sake of peril was like coming home after a long time away. Nothing had changed. The unnerving noises still crept up behind them, the same stale scent still slipped into their noses, and large, hound footprints still tripped them when they walked.

Fluffy appeared almost immediately. And almost immediately John's hand caught Sherlock and dragged him further away from the gigantic hound.

Fluffy had not entirely changed from the last time they'd seen him. He still had three heads, he still had fangs that could pierce the shoulders of an eleven year-old boy, and he still sent adrenaline through Sherlock and John's bodies.

Although John pulled Sherlock away and they made good speed, one of Fluffy's paws reached out and hitched onto Sherlock's chest and sliced it open. In the means that it happened, the momentum did not knock Sherlock off of his feet, but propelled him forward, as if the occurrence never happened.

But the momentum knocked John's hand away from Sherlock's wrist. The adrenaline was high and all they could focus on was the crunch of dead leaves underneath their feet each and every time their shoes hit the ground.

•••

Eventually, Sherlock had found himself without the hound behind him as he ran, but he had enough urgency coursing through his veins that he couldn't help himself but to keep running. The gash in his chest didn't begin to ache and tear at his mind in agony until his shoe hooked on an uprooted tree branch and he toppled over, his crimson-soaked button down splattering red rain on the leaves around him.

It was then, face down, that he heard the sound.

A single, splitting screech came at him from above. He summoned up all the strength he could find and turned himself over so he could brace whatever had found him, but it was not a single creature. Instead, the sky was completely covered with black, tattered fabric. Dementors swooped down at him one by one.

And he was alone. Merlin, was he so alone.

His head lolled back. Every pore in his being tingled and slipped out of their places. His lungs drew inhales of little depth. The images slurred in front of him. Tendrils curled out from his peripheral vision, sloppy black smudges dotting the canvas of his eyesight. There were gusts of wind. They spun and twirled in the very air he could not seem to suck into his lungs. Arms of the cold, black mass embraced him and pulled him in. The air was sweet and cold.

Through the hollows of the darkness a voice slipped into his senses, but it was dull and not sharp enough to cut through the film of death that covered his nerves. The gash on his chest grew more and more enervating—a thick, lurid mass that drained not only the energy out of Sherlock, but the sense of purpose. The mass called his name and he only but wanted to follow it when it called.

As he sunk down into the horde of dementors his skin grew numb and the black smudges swirled into one solid form.

He did not notice the light. He did not see the absence of moth-chewed cloaks, nor felt the arms encompass his lifeless frame. But Sherlock Holmes heard the groan of a wolf in the distance, the bellow of a cry that shot life back into his veins.

 _Let him be the last thing I see_.

The moon was nowhere near full, but the howls rocketed through the forbidden forest.

A sensation breeched his forehead—tender—and then a flash of coolness came about him. Sherlock's chest erupted in bright energy. When his eyes shot open, he saw John.

But they weren't alone in the forest. A white wolf accompanied them.

His mouth was dry, but he managed to cry out, "John?"

The moment John's eyes fell on Sherlock, the wolf vanished into the bitter, fall air. Sherlock watched as John tried at words, but all that came about on John's end was a slackened jaw.

Sherlock bartered for enough air. With each lungful, he surveyed John's health—eyeing the scratch under John's left eye, the way John's shoulders hunched over Sherlock's body, the way he held Sherlock in his lap. It had been no wolf that had saved him. It had been John and his patronus.

"You, John," Sherlock breathed, at first with a cough. But soon Sherlock found his voice and continued, "It was always you I thought about. You keep me… _right_. "

John's breath darted from his lungs. Sherlock felt the heat of it on his cheeks. He sat up, with little help from John—regardless of having to use John's arm to steady himself.

John's mouth moved, but the sounds didn't match the actions. Sherlock blinked. "I just took longer…I was planning on saying something, but I didn't know what—"

Sherlock's hands slipped over John's shoulders and locked around his neck. His head pressed into the warm skin on the side of John's collar.

"Oh," he heard. He could feel the vibration of John's voice. If Sherlock could pick his favorite word, right then and there, 'Oh' would have won with flying colors.

John's breath rustled the back of Sherlock's hair as he said it. And when John's arms found his own back and clutched on tight, he swallowed, and did not think of his heart ruling his head.

"Never let me go."

•••

On the way back to the castle, Sherlock supplied most of his weight onto John's right side—his arm twined around John's shoulder, and, most importantly, his right hand knitted into John's right hand.

The walk was slow, but steady. Both boys found themselves exhausted, enamored, and with breaths that came out in short huffs that stirred the autumn air in bouts. But they were together. And they were alive.

•••

They ignored the fact the there was only one bed, rather than two. Even the Room of Requirement knew something had changed.

John led Sherlock to the lone mattress and placed him down gently, for his frame was still weak. When John gazed into his eyes, Sherlock was still rather foggy. Sherlock sat atop the mattress and John examined the wounds, his fingertips drifting along the skin of Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock looked up, startled apparently, and John's expression softened.

"Is this okay?" he asked, not entirely testing if he was in pain. He was more so testing his boundaries. Although there was a shift in perceptions, it was new and Sherlock was magnificent and John was beyond nervous as to how Sherlock would grow into his soul.

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. His lashes fluttered. John felt more weight in his palms as Sherlock's head drew close to his stomach where he held it.

John took a deep breath and he knew. Everything that had happened in his lifetime led him to that moment—to Sherlock giving in and removing even more of the negative space between them.

"Are you experiencing any pain?" he asked gently, fingertips slipping along Sherlock's jaw and pocketing Sherlock's ear between his fingers.

When Sherlock hummed his response, John could feel it in his bones. "You should consider being a Healer, John. It would suit you."

John allowed his fingers to trace circles into Sherlock's scalp. Sherlock leant into his touch. "There's no pain?" he asked again.

"Not anymore," he said.

John took a deep breath in. By the time he was ready to exhale, Sherlock's eyes had already closed and his head had nestled into the spot between John's shoulder and neck. When Sherlock breathed, it tickled John.

His fingertips journeyed to the nape of Sherlock's neck. For a moment, he could have sworn to Merlin that his fingers were brushing through a patch of coarse, white fur. But when he looked at Sherlock's head resting on his shoulder, all he could see was a mess of spilled-ink spirals and an exhausted Slytherin.

And when Sherlock climbed into bed with him he was cold and nothing like John expected.

•••

John woke Sherlock up halfway through the night. His bandages needed changed and John wanted another chance to look at him without feeling like he would find himself scorned for the action.

He brushed Sherlock's curls away from his eyes and massaged his thumb into Sherlock's forehead. When Sherlock finally stirred, he squinted and then grumbled, "Are you in pain?"

John frowned. "It's not excessive. I'm fine, Sherlock. Really."

Sherlock made his standard ambiguous noise and sat up. His hand instantly went to his chest to put pressure there. Throbbing, no doubt.

"There's a vile to the left of the brass cauldron on my desk. It's filled about halfway with purple liquid. Can you grab it for me?" he asked, eyes squinting.

John nodded and fetched the vile. He brought it to Sherlock, but as he tried to hand it to him, Sherlock pushed it away. "It's for you," he said.

John huffed, but downed the contents anyway, not bothering to ask what it was. Since he'd done as Sherlock asked, he went and grabbed fresh bandages from he bedside table. When he looked back at Sherlock, his eyes were bloodshot and gaunt looking, and his skin was bruised at large proportions. If only he could take the pain away from him, everything would have been fine.

"Put your arms up," he instructed gently, nudging Sherlock's wrist with his knuckles.

"I can't."

"Yes you can. Now let me just pull the arm away from your chest. Okay. Good. Keep your arms up there…this will only take a minute."

It was difficult to ignore Sherlock's protests in pain, but he managed. His fingertips slipped under the hemline of Sherlock's tee and pulled it up over the Slytherin's head.

As he tended to the bandages and replaced them, he continued checking with Sherlock that he was doing all right— nonverbally. And every time, Sherlock looked up at him like he was the world.

When he was done, Sherlock's eyes had grown even heavier. John pulled the shirt back over Sherlock's head and guided him to his pillow.

"Thank you, John," he wheezed, eyes closed, body limp against the mattress.

John pulled the covers tight around the two of them. He pressed his lips onto Sherlock's forehead and didn't wake until the next morning.

•••

Sherlock's eyes split open and adjusted to the weak lighting in the Flat. The sun had yet to come up, but the fire had died and Gladstone had journeyed to the lone bed for warmth instead.

The shadows parted and John's figure emerged as a silver outline next to him. Soft, buoyant breaths filled the Gryffindor's lungs.

They had slept beside each other many times. That itself was not new. The sparks of electricity, which had jolted through his veins every time he thought about it, weren't new, either. And although every time they had found themselves on the same mattress, the reasons had been individual. They'd been singular.

John's knee had twisted as he ran through the forest. Sherlock could tell this by the way he'd walked to get the vile. His own chest ached and his skin grew hot in a common wail of pain. But all the injuries and flaws did not get in the way of Sherlock shuffling closer to John.

Mycroft once told him he would never be pleased. It was after they'd gone to the museum with their parents. Sherlock hadn't gotten to see a pirate exhibit, for which he had been promised. It had been closed a week prior due to 'Preservation and Aging Studies'.

"You couldn't have been happy with all the other exhibits, could you, Sherlock?" Mycroft had said to him as Sherlock kicked a pebble in front of his feet, hands shoved far down into his coat pockets.

John changed him as a being and made him whole in ways he could not fathom even being unwholesome. But a piece was still missing.

He had tried to define their relationship the first time he fell into a bed beside John Watson. Sherlock never came to a final conclusion. And yet, with his pale and bruised fingers finally able to press up against the glass wall of the pirate exhibit, he still didn't know.

But he did know that he was happy. And that he had John. And no matter what Moriarty did to him, at least one thing went right in his life.

He'd take John over wax pirates any day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though this fic still has a means to go, this chapter is what started it all.


	32. Year Six III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dementors come and so does a hitch in their relationship.

The Forest was always dim and eerie. There were gasps of blue moonlight slipping through the leaves in the trees which made beacons of light touch down the rooted, littered ground.

For John and Sherlock, entering the Forest for the sake of peril was like coming home after a long time away. Nothing had changed. The unnerving noises still crept up behind them, the same stale scent still slipped into their noses, and large, hound footprints still tripped them when they walked.

Fluffy appeared almost immediately. And almost immediately John's hand caught Sherlock and dragged him further away from the gigantic hound.

Fluffy had not entirely changed from the last time they'd seen him. He still had three heads, he still had fangs that could pierce the shoulders of an eleven year-old boy, and he still sent adrenaline through Sherlock and John's bodies.

Although John pulled Sherlock away and they made good speed, one of Fluffy's paws reached out and hitched onto Sherlock's chest and sliced it open. In the means that it happened, the momentum did not knock Sherlock off of his feet, but propelled him forward, as if the occurrence never happened.

But the momentum knocked John's hand away from Sherlock's wrist. The adrenaline was high and all they could focus on was the crunch of dead leaves underneath their feet each and every time their shoes hit the ground.

•••

Eventually, Sherlock had found himself without the hound behind him as he ran, but he had enough urgency coursing through his veins that he couldn't help himself but to keep running. The gash in his chest didn't begin to ache and tear at his mind in agony until his shoe hooked on an uprooted tree branch and he toppled over, his crimson-soaked button down splattering red rain on the leaves around him.

It was then, face down, that he heard the sound.

A single, splitting screech came at him from above. He summoned up all the strength he could find and turned himself over so he could brace whatever had found him, but it was not a single creature. Instead, the sky was completely covered with black, tattered fabric. Dementors swooped down at him one by one.

And he was alone. Merlin, was he so alone.

His head lolled back. Every pore in his being tingled and slipped out of their places. His lungs drew inhales of little depth. The images slurred in front of him. Tendrils curled out from his peripheral vision, sloppy black smudges dotting the canvas of his eyesight. There were gusts of wind. They spun and twirled in the very air he could not seem to suck into his lungs. Arms of the cold, black mass embraced him and pulled him in. The air was sweet and cold.

Through the hollows of the darkness a voice slipped into his senses, but it was dull and not sharp enough to cut through the film of death that covered his nerves. The gash on his chest grew more and more enervating—a thick, lurid mass that drained not only the energy out of Sherlock, but the sense of purpose. The mass called his name and he only but wanted to follow it when it called.

As he sunk down into the horde of dementors his skin grew numb and the black smudges swirled into one solid form.

He did not notice the light. He did not see the absence of moth-chewed cloaks, nor felt the arms encompass his lifeless frame. But Sherlock Holmes heard the groan of a wolf in the distance, the bellow of a cry that shot life back into his veins.

 _Let him be the last thing I see_.

The moon was nowhere near full, but the howls rocketed through the forbidden forest.

A sensation breeched his forehead—tender—and then a flash of coolness came about him. Sherlock's chest erupted in bright energy. When his eyes shot open, he saw John.

But they weren't alone in the forest. A white wolf accompanied them.

His mouth was dry, but he managed to cry out, "John?"

The moment John's eyes fell on Sherlock, the wolf vanished into the bitter, fall air. Sherlock watched as John tried at words, but all that came about on John's end was a slackened jaw.

Sherlock bartered for enough air. With each lungful, he surveyed John's health—eyeing the scratch under John's left eye, the way John's shoulders hunched over Sherlock's body, the way he held Sherlock in his lap. It had been no wolf that had saved him. It had been John and his patronus.

"You, John," Sherlock breathed, at first with a cough. But soon Sherlock found his voice and continued, "It was always you I thought about. You keep me… _right_. "

John's breath darted from his lungs. Sherlock felt the heat of it on his cheeks. He sat up, with little help from John—regardless of having to use John's arm to steady himself.

John's mouth moved, but the sounds didn't match the actions. Sherlock blinked. "I just took longer…I was planning on saying something, but I didn't know what—"

Sherlock's hands slipped over John's shoulders and locked around his neck. His head pressed into the warm skin on the side of John's collar.

"Oh," he heard. He could feel the vibration of John's voice. If Sherlock could pick his favorite word, right then and there, 'Oh' would have won with flying colors.

John's breath rustled the back of Sherlock's hair as he said it. And when John's arms found his own back and clutched on tight, he swallowed, and did not think of his heart ruling his head.

"Never let me go."

•••

On the way back to the castle, Sherlock supplied most of his weight onto John's right side—his arm twined around John's shoulder, and, most importantly, his right hand knitted into John's right hand.

The walk was slow, but steady. Both boys found themselves exhausted, enamored, and with breaths that came out in short huffs that stirred the autumn air in bouts. But they were together. And they were alive.

•••

They ignored the fact the there was only one bed, rather than two. Even the Room of Requirement knew something had changed.

John led Sherlock to the lone mattress and placed him down gently, for his frame was still weak. When John gazed into his eyes, Sherlock was still rather foggy. Sherlock sat atop the mattress and John examined the wounds, his fingertips drifting along the skin of Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock looked up, startled apparently, and John's expression softened.

"Is this okay?" he asked, not entirely testing if he was in pain. He was more so testing his boundaries. Although there was a shift in perceptions, it was new and Sherlock was magnificent and John was beyond nervous as to how Sherlock would grow into his soul.

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. His lashes fluttered. John felt more weight in his palms as Sherlock's head drew close to his stomach where he held it.

John took a deep breath and he knew. Everything that had happened in his lifetime led him to that moment—to Sherlock giving in and removing even more of the negative space between them.

"Are you experiencing any pain?" he asked gently, fingertips slipping along Sherlock's jaw and pocketing Sherlock's ear between his fingers.

When Sherlock hummed his response, John could feel it in his bones. "You should consider being a Healer, John. It would suit you."

John allowed his fingers to trace circles into Sherlock's scalp. Sherlock leant into his touch. "There's no pain?" he asked again.

"Not anymore," he said.

John took a deep breath in. By the time he was ready to exhale, Sherlock's eyes had already closed and his head had nestled into the spot between John's shoulder and neck. When Sherlock breathed, it tickled John.

His fingertips journeyed to the nape of Sherlock's neck. For a moment, he could have sworn to Merlin that his fingers were brushing through a patch of coarse, white fur. But when he looked at Sherlock's head resting on his shoulder, all he could see was a mess of spilled-ink spirals and an exhausted Slytherin.

And when Sherlock climbed into bed with him he was cold and nothing like John expected.

•••

John woke Sherlock up halfway through the night. His bandages needed changed and John wanted another chance to look at him without feeling like he would find himself scorned for the action.

He brushed Sherlock's curls away from his eyes and massaged his thumb into Sherlock's forehead. When Sherlock finally stirred, he squinted and then grumbled, "Are you in pain?"

John frowned. "It's not excessive. I'm fine, Sherlock. Really."

Sherlock made his standard ambiguous noise and sat up. His hand instantly went to his chest to put pressure there. Throbbing, no doubt.

"There's a vile to the left of the brass cauldron on my desk. It's filled about halfway with purple liquid. Can you grab it for me?" he asked, eyes squinting.

John nodded and fetched the vile. He brought it to Sherlock, but as he tried to hand it to him, Sherlock pushed it away. "It's for you," he said.

John huffed, but downed the contents anyway, not bothering to ask what it was. Since he'd done as Sherlock asked, he went and grabbed fresh bandages from he bedside table. When he looked back at Sherlock, his eyes were bloodshot and gaunt looking, and his skin was bruised at large proportions. If only he could take the pain away from him, everything would have been fine.

"Put your arms up," he instructed gently, nudging Sherlock's wrist with his knuckles.

"I can't."

"Yes you can. Now let me just pull the arm away from your chest. Okay. Good. Keep your arms up there…this will only take a minute."

It was difficult to ignore Sherlock's protests in pain, but he managed. His fingertips slipped under the hemline of Sherlock's tee and pulled it up over the Slytherin's head.

As he tended to the bandages and replaced them, he continued checking with Sherlock that he was doing all right— nonverbally. And every time, Sherlock looked up at him like he was the world.

When he was done, Sherlock's eyes had grown even heavier. John pulled the shirt back over Sherlock's head and guided him to his pillow.

"Thank you, John," he wheezed, eyes closed, body limp against the mattress.

John pulled the covers tight around the two of them. He pressed his lips onto Sherlock's forehead and didn't wake until the next morning.

•••

Sherlock's eyes split open and adjusted to the weak lighting in the Flat. The sun had yet to come up, but the fire had died and Gladstone had journeyed to the lone bed for warmth instead.

The shadows parted and John's figure emerged as a silver outline next to him. Soft, buoyant breaths filled the Gryffindor's lungs.

They had slept beside each other many times. That itself was not new. The sparks of electricity, which had jolted through his veins every time he thought about it, weren't new, either. And although every time they had found themselves on the same mattress, the reasons had been individual. They'd been singular.

John's knee had twisted as he ran through the forest. Sherlock could tell this by the way he'd walked to get the vile. His own chest ached and his skin grew hot in a common wail of pain. But all the injuries and flaws did not get in the way of Sherlock shuffling closer to John.

Mycroft once told him he would never be pleased. It was after they'd gone to the museum with their parents. Sherlock hadn't gotten to see a pirate exhibit, for which he had been promised. It had been closed a week prior due to 'Preservation and Aging Studies'.

"You couldn't have been happy with all the other exhibits, could you, Sherlock?" Mycroft had said to him as Sherlock kicked a pebble in front of his feet, hands shoved far down into his coat pockets.

John changed him as a being and made him whole in ways he could not fathom even being unwholesome. But a piece was still missing.

He had tried to define their relationship the first time he fell into a bed beside John Watson. Sherlock never came to a final conclusion. And yet, with his pale and bruised fingers finally able to press up against the glass wall of the pirate exhibit, he still didn't know.

But he did know that he was happy. And that he had John. And no matter what Moriarty did to him, at least one thing went right in his life.

He'd take John over wax pirates any day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though this fic still has a means to go, this chapter is what started it all. A big thanks to the tumblr user who was previously sherlocklexa for putting up this head canon which has served me in almost three years of inspiration:  
> 
>
>>   
> Imagine your OTP at Hogwarts while they learn the Patronus spell and Sherlock notes that his favorite memory is about John. But after both having done their spell right, Sherlock sees that the John's Patronus doesn’t fit his. The two of them go on and after some years they come into a dangerous situation and have to use the spell again, after not using it for quiet some time. Surprisingly, John's Patronus changed into one that matches Sherlock's. Sherlock wants to know why after the fight is over. John then tells Sherlock about the developed feelings that he has for the Slytherin and Sherlock just smiles widely before casting his own Patronus, whispering: "It was always you I thought about"
> 
>   
> I CAN'T WAIT TO TELL YOU GUYS HOW IN LOVE THEY ARE 


	33. Year Sixth IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some loose ends are tied. Tea is made.

The sunlight streamed through the windows in the Defense room. Sherlock had only leaned against the doorframe for a few moments before Teddy emerged from his office, looking unraveled and, frankly, tired.

“I thought one of you would surprise me at some point today,” he called out, his mud-caked boots finding their way to the back of the classroom where Sherlock was. His hands buried themselves inside his jacket pockets. It appeared as if Teddy hadn’t brushed his hair in days, chaotically spilling off his head in fiery waves. “I’ve gotten word you weren’t feeling well?” Teddy added, an eyebrow shooting up in concern and confusion.

“Moriarty sent dementors,” Sherlock said. His ankles crossed and locked. He pretended as if standing up didn’t make his chest ache. He _pretended_ as if the hollow reverberation of talking didn’t make his legs quiver under the weight of holding himself up.

Although he was aware Teddy wasn’t as clever as him when it came to deductions, he knew the look in his own eyes would give the entirety of the past night away. As the only other person that held the capability to read Sherlock like that, aside from John and Mycroft, Teddy would be able to tell. It didn’t help that he wore his pajamas out of the Flat, either, which was an unusual sight—regardless of if he wore a coat or not. Sherlock was mindful of such.

The professor picked at his lips. “Have you made the right choice?” he asked, looking up from where his eyes had dropped after the mention of dementors.

“John told you what happened?”

He knew there was a fair chance John hadn’t. But he’d rather John tell him than Teddy reading him so well.

“Mrs. Hudson said he sent for supplies. She didn’t know what they were for.”

“John never mentioned what happened with the dementors?” he tried again. He wanted to bite through his tongue. It would force him to stop talking.

He should have. Teddy’s face drained. His pupils dilated. He’d realized something.

Sherlock couldn’t find the urge to exhale.

“You saw his patronus,” Teddy said. The tail of his words didn’t turn upwards as a question. It had been a statement.

“You _knew_?” Sherlock shouted, free arm reaching up to clutch at his chest, now aching further with the sudden movement.

“Perhaps.”

A rush of unannounced adrenaline surged through him until his fingertips dug into his shirt. He could feel his fingernails through the fabric. “You knew and let me suffer and just watched?”

“I had to let you make the right choice, Sherlock it wasn’t my place—“

“Piss off.”

He was down the corridor before Teddy could respond.

•••

Sherlock went down to Mrs. Hudson’s hut, rather than the Flat. The running, or, _brisk walking_ would have made the wound bleed twice as fast. If he visited her, John wouldn’t have to fuss over him more than he’d already had to.

She opened the door before he could even knock.

“John sent for supplies in the middle of the night. Are you alright, dear?”

He stormed past her and seated himself down at her table. Sherlock’s head fell into his hands. “I’m fine,” he said.

“What happened last night?” She was already rushing around the small cabin preparing a cuppa to return the warmth to his nub hands.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Can I get you anything, dear?”

“Other than the chamomile?”

She tittered, but didn’t stop filling the kettle.

“Did John take all your bandages?”

It was the same reason he admired Mrs. Hudson his first year as he did then: She didn’t ask how the injury happened—only fussed over the injury itself. “What are they going to be used for?” was the only response he got.

“Deep gash between my ribs. Excessively bleeding at this exact moment. I’m rather surprised my shirt is still white.”

The mug she was pulling out of the cabinet slipped and clattered to the ground. It fractured in two solid pieces.

He expected her to shout at him, but she didn’t. Instead, she rushed over, making some sort of dissatisfied noise. She braced her fingers on the sides of his face. “Are you all right, dear?” she asked worriedly.

“I’m fine, I just need clean bandages.” He wasn’t fine. He was losing more blood than healthy. Teddy had withheld vital information from him and John Watson was waiting in the Flat to fall asleep with him for the second night as ‘not-friends’.

He wasn’t fine.

Mrs. Hudson tittered to herself as she dashed over to a corner of the hut. Sherlock shrugged off his shirt and began peeling at the crimson soaked bandages that encompassed his torso.

He wasn’t squeamish. He knew John wasn’t, either. But based on the grimaces John had given him the night before while dressing his wounds, Sherlock looked away as soon as stripped the last piece of compression.

Mrs. Hudson’s face turned frozen. She placed down the bandages and went for something entirely different—a jar of red sand, or, the looks of red sand. “It will seal the gash,” she assured him, uncapping the cork. “If you lie down, dear, I can put this on it.”

Sherlock clenched his teeth onto the inside of his mouth while cautiously transferring himself to the cot.

Mrs. Hudson sprinkled two spoonfuls of the predisposed sand over the gash. Searing pain spread throughout his torso in an instant. A fizzing sensation met this, and his limbs began to tremble.

“What ingredients were in that?” he asked.

She closed the jar. “It’s Muggle, believe it or not, love. How are you feeling?”

He grimaced. “Fine.” A shallow breath followed. “Thank you.”

After they’d wrapped fresh bandages, Sherlock found himself nursing a cuppa in a _reparo-ed_ mug, still on the cot.

“John’s patronus changed,” Sherlock said, his voice slicing through the newfound silence in the groundskeeper’s hut.

“Did it?” she asked.

“To mine.”

She giggled. “Took him long enough. He was always a sound character, that one, never wanting to change.”

“Mrs. Hudson!”

She cleared the table with a flick of her wand. “I’m only stating the truth. I wouldn’t lie to you, dear.”

“He told you, too?”

“I’ve watched your lot since you first got here. I knew, Sherlock. How could I not on the way you two look at each other like that.” She waved her hand in the air, motioning to the apparent ‘way’ he looked at John.

He was seething.

“You and Teddy meet up for tea weekly just to make my life miserable, don’t you?” he spat.

“Your mother would have known had she seen the way you are with him.”

If he could get off the cot, he’d walk out right then, but she’d specifically instructed him to give the gash time to seal. Sherlock gritted his teeth and focused himself on the only window he could see through to distract himself. He ran his fingers over his shirt in his hands. The sky was grey, wind curling around leaves and ripping them off their branches.

“Well, my mother sent for me to terminate my friendship with him.”

“She did no such thing. That was the Imperius talking through her. You know that, Sherlock. She would never tell you to, on accordance of your lonesome childhood.”

He couldn’t move his eyes away form the window. “He’s my only friend.”

“That’s not true, but nevertheless. She would have known. I’m certain Myc already knows.”

“Obviously,” he said, face scrunching up in mockery.

He could hear her pause in her tracks. “You’ll be all right, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson held onto vowels for longer than she should.

“I know.”

A knock sounded on the door.

“I’ll be right there!” she called out.

“Yoo-hoo!” The door creaked opened. “Oh, John. It’s good to see you in the daylight. Come in, won’t you.”

“For Merlin’s sake,” Sherlock griped.

Gentle padding of footsteps fell into the hut. They paused. “Sherlock?”

“What? Did you think it was someone else? Geoff Lestrade with a sodding mask on?” He tried to take a suave sip of his tea, but because he was lying down, some of it spilled on his chest. He groaned in irritation and wiped it away.

“You left without telling me where you were. I’ve been looking all over the castle for you.”

Annoyance riddled into his eyebrows. They shot up as his eyes widened in cynicism. “Congratulations. You found me,” he said dryly.

“That’s not a way to speak to John,” Mrs. Hudson said, tapping one of her shoes on the ground.

Sherlock simply shrugged his shoulders and placed his cup on the ground.

Mrs. Hudson lowered her voice to talk to John. “He’s secretly pleased to see you under it all. Can I get you some tea?”

“Sure, that’d be great.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Don’t make her break another cup.”

John shoes shuffled on the floor as he turned to Sherlock. “What?”

“We redressed his bandages, dear,” Mrs. Hudson chirped in. “No need to worry.”

There was a scrape of wood on wood. John dragged one of the dining chairs over to the cot near Sherlock’s feet so he could sit near him.

“Running away from your problems, are we now?” John teased, a smile brimming his lips.

“You’d be surprised,” Sherlock said, mouth almost entirely lacking movement as he spoke.

John leaned back in the chair. “How are you feeling?” he asked—eyebrows raised, mouth puckered, gaze fixed.

“Fine.”

John’s response was almost spitfire. “Liar.”

“I’ve lost a good sum of blood. As good as I can feel after that.”

Mrs. Hudson’s voice bounced off the cabinets she was facing as she fixed John’s cuppa. “We sealed the gash with a Muggle solution. ‘Should fix up the bleeding within the hour.”

A heavy breath escaped John. “Good. Believe it or not, I was actually looking for a remedy that had the same purpose this morning. But I couldn’t find anything.”

“That’s why it’s Muggle, dear. The Wizarding World hasn’t figured that one out, yet, I’m afraid.”

Another knock sounded at the door.

“Right,” John nodded. “Good.”

Sherlock groaned for what felt like the eightieth time that afternoon. His hand dashed up to put pressure on his chest.

He was having déjà vu.

“I’ll be right there!” Mrs. Hudson called out. The kettle whined the second she left it’s side.

Sherlock turned to the side. As soon as he did, mud-caked boots clomped into the small hut. It felt as is the grounds-keeper had turned on a fire. He could have sworn he was breathing second-hand air, based on how many people she fit into the room.

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I’m glad you could have me,” Teddy Lupin said.

“What? Is Mycroft next?” Sherlock closed his eyes and groaned. John’s hand found his ankle immediately. _‘Stop this’_ it said.

“I assume he’s not going to speak to me, which is fine,” said Teddy.

There was a clank of ceramic on counter top—another cuppa—for Teddy this time. “Who? Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

Teddy sat down at the table and replied, “Yes.”

A silence fell over the crowded hut. All that could be heard was the whistling of the wind outside and Mrs. Hudson’s shoes against the floorboards.

That is, until Teddy decided to break that beautiful peace.

“It wasn’t my place to say or inform you of such matters,” he said.

John cut in, as usual. “What matters?”

“You’re being redundant,” he spat.

Teddy exhaled through his nose. He shifted his weight. Mrs. Hudson filled the kettle.

“John would have been put off had I told you,” Teddy replied.

John, “What’s going on?”

Sherlock, to Teddy, “You picked him over me. You favor him, then.”

“The base—the bare bones—of our relationship is teacher and student. And even though I am your friend, I am first and foremost your teacher. And as your teacher I saw you would learn best by making the right choice yourself. You’d learned nothing if I’d told you what to do or what had happened.”

Sherlock’s eyes shot open. Had he been able to, he would have sat up on the cot and faced Teddy. But he couldn’t, so he took a minute to position himself more upright than before, though still not to the extent at which would please him. “My life and personal conflicts are just another lesson plan to you, aren’t they?” he bit, eyes narrowly locked on Teddy’s.

Teddy shook his head in defense. “Sherlock,” he said, “that’s not what I meant.”

“What the hell is going on?” shouted John, which caused Mrs. Hudson jumped and the newfound loudness. She regained herself and turned around so as to not see the bickering.

Sherlock had not broken his stern lock on Teddy, but when he did, he found John immediately. The same adrenaline that found his veins at the sight of the hound the night before found him again at that moment. “He knew your patronus changed and didn’t tell me.”

It was as if Teddy wasn’t in the room. Or, that’s how Sherlock pretended it to be.

“He…knew about… _you_?” John said.

Teddy finally spoke again. “It wasn’t my place to interject.”

“And it still isn’t now,” replied Sherlock. His face was bunched up in annoyance.

John and Sherlock never broke gazes. “You told him?” he said to Sherlock.

“No,” Sherlock found a breath somewhere outside him and he sucked it deep, down into his lungs. “He could tell. He…deduced it. And if I had to guess Mycroft mentioned it in one of their weekly correspondences.”

“Mycroft knows?”

“Mycroft knows all. Obviously.”

John rubbed the back of his hand against his forehead. He was taking them moment to let the new information sink in. “Then what’s all the fuss about? We came to realization ourselves anyway. It would have happened one manner or another, right?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _‘I suppose’_ the action said.

John smirked. _‘You’re a git. I wouldn’t love you any other way’_ the action responded.

“How about you all stay for lunch? I can have it ready in ten minutes,” said Mrs. H.

“That sounds great.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this chapter: giving it some kudos or a comment will help the production of further chapters! Thanks.


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